


Vampire's Advocate

by magicentropia, Santia



Category: Dracula - Bram Stoker, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, The Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde
Genre: Action/Adventure, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, F/M, Gen, Urban Fantasy, Vampires, Victorian, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-22
Updated: 2018-04-09
Packaged: 2019-02-18 11:54:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 24
Words: 118,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13099557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicentropia/pseuds/magicentropia, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Santia/pseuds/Santia
Summary: Jonathan Harker failed to get back to normal life after his Transylvanian experience. One case reunited him with Professor Abraham Van Helsing, and – meet "Helsing & Harker", the legal advice firm, ready to help clients from both sides of reality. Later they got the third team member, a French emigrant Erik a.k.a the Phantom of the Opera. He needed a job, didn't mind risky tasks and gladly added a little chaos to the standoffish English life.The trio has a lot to do. A beast of prey, too clever and cruel to be just an animal, terrorizes the streets of London. Some daring burglars intruded the British Museum and left without any of its treasures except for one ancient mummy. Jonathan's friend is wrongly accused of murder. And a striking woman named Irene Adler has a new acquaintance, a young nobleman from Transylvania, Count Aurel. Yes, a vampire is in London again, and this time he is the "Helsing & Harker" client! Apparently, this will bring no good.





	1. The Beast

**Author's Note:**

> Also inspired by "Tanz der Vampire", so, if some characters look familiar - you are not wrong ;)
> 
> The work is completed and will be published in chapters
> 
> Текст на русском на сайте [ПродаМан](https://prodaman.ru/magicentropia/books/Advokat-vampira)

At times, it appeared as if this city had no sun at all. It hid either in the bleakly leaden clouds or behind the thick veil of smog, and puddles splashing under the wheels reflected moon much more often than the celestial body of the day. At dusk, all the life died down in this part of London. The locals preferred the comfort and safety of tightly locked doors and well-secured shutters, and were in no haste to respond to any knocks: it wasn't a gentleman's thing to do to pay a surprise visit that late.

It was three day after the full moon time, but the pale yellow disc was still big and bright enough to let one see cobbles still glittering after a recent rain. Clouds scatted across the dark skies, once and again covering the moon and shrouding the place in a pitch-black darkness, barely affected by the lanterns. The bravest of the brave would feel tense in this street at this time of night.

The cab turned the corner, moved a bit further and stopped, letting out a single passenger. Money changed hands, the two exchanged words briefly, and the coacher took the reins again.

The passenger, fair-haired young man, glanced after the retreating carriage, pulled the gloves on, lifted his coat's collar, and strode quickly along the street towards a lone dark house, with the only window lit behind the curtains, the one at the first floor. 

At shorter distance the house looked respectable, even not without a certain allure. What time it was? There was not helping searching a pocket for the watch, but before he had time to look at the hands, he heard steps behind. A match scratched and with a short hiss the flame chased the dark away, lighting the round glasses of the newcomer. 

"Professor, isn't it? It looks like I made you wait?" – the young man sounded somewhat guilty. "No more than five minutes", – came the soothing answer from the one he called professor. There was no exact telling of what age he was – somewhere between fifty and sixty – but he was robustly built; broad-brimmed hat on his head was a good idea for the weather, currently laying a siege to the city with thin rains. He was about to touch the door-knocker – and suddenly froze in his tracks. – "Don't you hear anything strange. Jonathan?"

Young man called Jonathan tilted his head a bit, straining his ears. He knew what the professor meant then and there: a distant long howl was perceivable enough. 

"A stray dog?" – he ventured.

"Not a dog".

"A wolf, then. Must have bolted away from the zoo again", – the young man sighed and knocked. 

The door flung open almost instantly. An elderly gentleman behind it gave the guests a quizzical look. 

"Good night, Mr Perkins, – the professor removed his hat and bowed slightly. – I am Professor Abraham Van Helsing, and that's my assistant, Mr Jonathan Harker".

"Good night, gentlemen, – the master of the house said. – Do come in, please".

It was warm in the house. Leaving the outer coats to the servants, the guests marched on after their host into a comfy reception room, lit by the chimney fire and the only gas lamp. 

"Sherry? Or – Mr Perkins paused a bit, – perhaps, brandy?" 

Professor Van Helsing and Jonathan exchanged glances and young man decisively shook his head. – "With your permission, we'd rather talk business first".

…Their conversation took up almost an hour, but finally the agreements were reached, sealed with signatures and handshakes, and the bottle of finest brandy on the mantelpiece finally got its time of day… or night, rather.

"I'll arrange all the needed documentation by noon, – Jonathan said, bidding goodbye and gave Mr Perkins his card: tidy, clear letters made the title "Helsing and Harker, law consultants in various fields of competence".

"I look forward to seeing you at the dinner", – the landlord said, wishing them all the best. 

They said, the weather in London changes ten times a day, but only as regards to the shades of unbearable. While they spent time with Mr Perkins, the air got much colder and humidity reached the torturous stage. Without saying a word, in unison, the professor and his young assistant hasted towards the cab's stop, as the very thought of returning home on foot brought with it a sheer terror. 

"What a boring case", – professor Van Helsing grunted on his way. 

"A few hours work for a decent pay – disagreed Jonathan. – I had much less inspiring tasks in my life, and they came thick and fast back then. A few more cases like that, and we could rent our own premises for the office".

"I'm quite alright with receiving clients at home", – Van Helsing grimaced.

"Mrs Turner is not, – the assistant reminded. – Just recently she hinted, in not so uncertain terms, that a few more visits from the guests like Mr Edwards, and we would be asked to leave".

Van Helsing did not reply.

They didn't have to wait for long – in about a minute, there was the sound of hooves and from behind the corner, the covetable Hansom's cab appeared, powered by a sprightly grey hoss. 

"Eh, gentlemen, would you, by any chance, have a shilling or two for a veteran of the campaign of Transvaal?" – the voice was screeching and its owner was clearly not on good terms with English tongue, or, for that matter, with his own as well. 

And before they had time to express sympathies or refuse the request, the moon, just coming out of the cloud, lit the beggar: wild hair growth covered his face nearly completely, the ears were pointed, the eyes burned around the vertical pupils, and corny, as if crippled with some illness, fingers had claws – yellow, sharp and rough. The monster grinned, enjoying the effect, then suddenly charged. The claws went through the thick coat as if through a soft gaze, coming within inches from the living flesh – Jonathan Harker ducked the lethal blow all but by miracle. Then a fire was shot – and the attacker was thrown off.

"Jonathan, how are you?" – Van Helsing dropped on one knee beside his aide, while still pointing the smoking gun at the creature. A low growl came from the crouching figure. It tensed – and leapt again. The professor fired another shot, but, unbelievably, the thing changed direction in the mid-air and the bullet barely touched it, going into a stone wall instead. Landed on all fours, the monster agilely went over his shoulder, then straightened and rose, still growling. He looked like a disgusting chimera, a hybrid between an animal and a human, a mock of nature clothed in old trashed suit of no longer definable colour. The half-beast looked at them for a moment, then abruptly turned and fled.

"Follow him!" – Van Helsing ordered, visibly excited. 

It all took but split seconds, the cabman didn't even have time to get scared, swear or just drive away hastily. Two late passengers jumped into the cab, the younger one pushed a sovereign into his hand, the older waved a hand after a quickly retreating shadow. Without further ado, the coacher shook the reigns and the cab swished off. 

The monster zigzagged as a some kind of humongous, ugly hare making its escape from the hounds. Couple of times he jumped, trying to get hold of a sill, but to no avail – every time he fell, roaring out of pain and anger. The bullet missed the vital organs, but made the beast weaker. The cab chased along, its manoeuvrability – and horse's muscles – stretched to a breaking point. The distance gradually faded – it looked like the chasers were closing on the prey. Van Helsing clicked the trigger and grinned with content. 

The next shot dented a cobble, exactly where just a moment ago the monster's head flashed before their eyes. One more made the beast yelp and draw in a paw. But then, gathering all its strength, crouching into a tight ball, he leapt up and managed to get hold of the wall with his front legs, squirming with all his body desperately, screeching against the stone, nearly falling, battling inch by inch on a sheer will – reached the edge and went over heavily. 

The cab skidded and let the passengers out. Harker ran up to the wall, throw his head back – he thought he momentarily saw two hate-filled fires in the monolith of darkness – and gritted his teeth. Van Helsing crouched and got the match box. Thick, scarlet drops of blood peppered the cobbles, and professor carefully soaked a handkerchief in it, then pocketed the cloth away. 

"Are you sure he didn't get you, Jonathan? – he asked. – These creatures have teeth as dangerous as any bite by a Nosferatu". 

"I'm fine, – the assistant replied. – Is it a human or an animal?"

"Both. An animal with intelligence and cruelty rivalling that of any man – or a man possessing of the force and bloodthirstiness of any predator. Take your pick". 

Jonathan ran his hand across his nigh-destroyed coat and shuddered belatedly. 

"They don't normally come to towns, – the professor went on. – Their turf is woods or wilderness. If only… someone brought him here. Domesticated him". 

"Domesticated? – Harker winced. – This… being is quite an eccentric choice for a pet, don't you think?"

"Let's go home, – Van Helsing instructed. – And you know, my friend, I have a bad feeling about this".

As if on cue, somewhere in the distance, there was another howl – the one combining animal pain with purely human, pointed hatred.


	2. Unexpected encounters

The reception was at its peak, yet the carriages were continuing to arrive. Servants darted in a lather from one guest to another, the champagne stayed conditioned in its ice buckets, the voices boomed, bouncing from the mirrors which added further volume to the already huge hall, and rising to the height of the ceilings adorned with gilded stucco. The ladies were all shine in glitter in their diamond-laced attires, reminding of birds of paradise. The chevaliers in their black tailcoats and white plastrons looked like penguins. At least, penguins sprang to Irene Adler's mind immediately as she saw them, while catching a glass from the floating-by tray, and making way towards a small grouping surrounding the lady of the house, one lady Ascot. 

Lady Ascot, nee Marie Duval, turned 28 this year. Naysayers tended to declare that the general Ascot married out of his circles of society because of intensifying degeneration (he was over 70), that she could well be his youngest son's daughter and, "you mark my words, dear, she will lead the old man to his grave within a month". Now, after five years, the balls in their house, thanks to lady Ascot's efforts and her husband's wealth, came to be one of London's main attractions for all the high-and-mighty. One ignored an invitation at their own peril – only your own death could arguably be considered an excuse to decline, nothing else counted.

Irene was a recognised figure in this house. So, immediately upon arrival to London she paid a visit to Park Lane mansion, to refresh the relations and hear all the gossip about current society's trends. 

In fact, when she left England a year ago, Irene Adler didn't even consider ever coming back. She allowed emotions to overcome her senses and bought one-way ticket to New York at the Lloyds of London. She meant to go on to Canada from USA, but then thought better of it and returned to Europe. September saw her at the Cote d'Azure in France, then she spent the entire October at the Comeaut Lake. Come November, she was in Vienna – and it was there, at the stalls of the Opera, pointing her binoculars at the musicians, when she realised it was time to go home. Without her noticing, time healed her inner scars – or, perhaps, it was not time but her own easygoing attitude. All of a sudden, she intensely wished for a Christmas in London, with a compulsory Christmas tree, all decorated, all the way up to the ceiling, and with the snow falling outside, blanketing the window… though who she was trying to fool, a Christmas snow in London was a rarer thing than a curiosity from the Kunstkamera Museum in St Petersburg.

Getting past almost all the penguins, Irene paused briefly, to respond to a hello from some couple – he of thin, greased hair, she in a vulgar orange number. At the edge of her brain, Miss Adler felt their name swirling nearby, but couldn't quite make it out. The short-term memory failing didn't narrow her smile even a bit, though. Polishing this encounter with a champagne, Irene looked around her for somewhere to put her empty glass – and caught someone's glance.

A young man, barely out of his boyhood, stood next to a wall, his hands behind his back, one leg slightly stuck out. Smoothly combed hair shimmered golden in the chandeliers' gas light, the bright colours of his clothing – unlike most of the guests, he didn't wear a tailcoat – emphasised wax-like paleness of the face, with strikingly full, sensuous lips, so scarlet, it was hard to believe it was truly a work of nature. A young visitor of lady Ascot's reception, tossing his head back, openly gazed at Irene, and it was just on the brink of decency.

"Miss Adler! – called lady of the ball just then, her hand fan moving invitingly. – I'm so delighted to see you, my darling!"

Lady Ascot put herself into strategically advantageous position several stairs above Irene. A necessary exchange of pleasantries followed. As many of those not born into high places, lady Ascot dreaded to look funny or inappropriately. She followed the fashion religiously, be that dresses or stage plays, trips abroad or men, and so, not through her own taste, but by painstaking work, she achieved sheer perfection. She felt ambiguous about Irene. On one hand, she admired her carelessness about the trends, her ability to follow only her own opinion and choices. On the other, she was annoyed by how easily Irene fit into any society – that gift was beyond lady Ascot's own grasp. Irene, in turn, saw Lady Ascot in a way close to what one would feel about an expensive breed of cat: great to look at, no minding patting one on the back or listening to the purr of several hundred pounds, but such creatures are absolutely no good when it comes to catching mice. 

It took lady Ascot about five minutes to tell everything about every guest worth close enough attention. Those included lord Darnham, just having returned from Egypt, the French charge de mission, of whom they said that he wrote verses not too shabbily, and somewhat of a novelty for this season: an aristocrat from somewhere in Austrian Hungarian Empire, whose name was a chore to pronounce. 

Successfully evading the acquaintance of Frenchman and Hungarian, Irene still had to smile at the English Egyptologist. When he declared he already knew Irene even before meeting her, she was not to a small degree surprised, but then, using suggestive questions, learned that he was married to a damsel Irene was once friends with. Having secured "the precious Miss Adler"'s agreement to visit the upcoming exhibition at the British Museum, lord Darnham bade his goodbyes and dissolved in the crowd with an impressive agility.

Irene, absent-mindedly, looked around the huge hall and guests gathered inside, and fixed her eyes on one of those. At the top of the grand stairs, there stood a man she knew – if only because in these circles, everyone knows everybody. A man of wealth and of striking beauty, a collector to boot, Mr Dorian Gray was the only one who could, should he so wish, ignore lady Ascot's ball with no consequence to himself, and whose presence could, and did, add even further glamour to the whole shebang. Irene quietly noted that he didn't change one bit since the last time she saw him and that was, oh, some two years ago. Granted, two years is nothing, especially for a gentleman who took a good care of himself. Still, there was something a little bit scary about this level of perfection.

Out of the blue, a hand appeared from under her elbow, glittering with a diamond link, and thin, pale fingers with well-cultured nails clasped the stalk of her glass. She turned round. 

"I most humbly apologise for my manners, – the voice came from the pale, scarlet-lipped young guest of Lady Ascot. – If I may offer you…" – he proffered the glass, his little finger, adorned with a ring, slightly aside. 

"I thank you", – she nodded slightly, using the opportunity to examine the stranger more closely. Long straight hair proved to be on a platinum side rather than golden, as she thought first, and when he momentarily looked behind him, she saw they all but reached his waist. This was not London's fashion – for that matter, it was not anywhere's fashion, far as she could tell – and hardly anyone of the visitors here would dare to go for such a haircut, or, come to think of it, such a near-barbaric luxury of a dressing. Yet it fitted the youth just perfectly. A fine, soulful face was entirely free of any wrinkles or birthmarks, and it looked very much like the smooth skin hadn't even been touched by a razor yet. There was a smile about his eyes, unusually brown for such a light blond, but then, there was something else to them, deep down. 

Breaking the pause which went on beyond the point of decency already, the young man made a leg in an old-fashioned manner, and introduced himself. Irene didn't find it hard to remember the first half of his surname, the second wasn't all that difficult to grasp either, but the whole of these two parts sounded horribly, and she thought better of trying to memorise this phonetic monstrosity.

"Oh, I heard about you, Count, – she said instead, after returning the favour. – Lady Ascot calls you an icing on her reception's cake". 

"As far as brightening-up of the balls goes, I can hardly compare with the lady herself" – came the reply in a social tone of voice. Fangs notably stuck out from the row of his strong white teeth, which made this smile looked rather predatory. 

"You come from Austrian Hungary, do you not? – Irene said. – I visited Vienna couple of times".

"I come from Transylvania, if you please, – Count answered, a little huffed, which made Irene raise an eyebrow in surprise. – Quite a nice retreat, it is, nearly untouched by civilisation – nothing at all like England. I am a province product, – he added, – and here, among all the guests, would probably rather count for a curiosity than an icing". 

Irene's lips curled just a little. 

"Do you think me overly straightforward?" – the Count tilted his head and for a second his eyes, catching the chandelier's light, flashed red. 

"I think, a lot of people will find you charming", – she muttered, suddenly feeling awkward. 

"May I have a pleasure to ask you for a dance?" – he reached the ball notes hanging on her hand. The notebook was all but filled up, with only one or two open dances left, which the Count immediately pointed out. – "See, it might be a sign of fate" – he looked her straight in the eye. She engaged him for one free waltz and retreated hastily. 

If she secretly hoped he would forget about it, those hopes went in vain: at the arranged time he suddenly appeared out of thin air and courteously offered his hand.

At the dance, he moved so lightly, as if barely touching the floor, rather soaring than stepping. Yet, she felt strength in his hands – a sheer pleasure of a partner. Irene mulled over a thought of starting a light affair – the London's winter is such a bore anyway, however you look at it. But a gut feeling told her that succumbing to the charms of this Hungarian – or whoever else – might not be such a good idea. There was something strange about the Count, something she could not quite put her finger on, but it made her wary all the same.

She realised it only in the dead of night, well after coming back from the ball, when getting herself ready to sleep. Not in a single tall mirror, plenty of which adorned the ball room, could she catch even a glimpse of his reflection.

* * * * *

When Mrs Turner made the decision to rent flats out of her house, there was, of course, a financial factor to it, but that was not her primary concern. She buried her husband four years ago, and her only child, Mary, got married and moved to live with her husband in Edinburgh. Her own younger sister Emma lived with her family in Leeds and whenever she visited, she called her to go over to stay with them. Mrs Turner was invariably polite and always promised to consider it, but then, just as politely, declined every time. She was fond of this huge, foreboding and cold – at first sight – city that was London. Yet the lady of venerable age often felt overcome with loneliness. She thought, more than once, that this particular house was too big for the two of them – herself and her maid Annie. So the thought about having some tenants – should they, of course, be civil and tidy – looked more and more like one worth thinking to Mrs Turner. 

This Westwick Gardens home didn't look anything different from any of its fellow buildings nearby: flat, plain front, no decorations, solid entrance door, with some stairs before it, and spacey attic at the top. There were plans to soon convert this latter into a mancarde, and, as usual, this "soon" wasn't in any hurry. Nevertheless, the newcomers liked the accommodation, as they later confessed, the moment they laid eyes on it. 

Those two gentlemen complied fully with the requirements of the lady of the house. First was called professor Van Helsing, and came to London quite recently. A brilliant scientist and discoverer of several important ideas in his field, he had a doctor's degree in medicine, but didn't practice, preferring the theoretical work and the position of a university lecturer. He also performed the community service at the Natural History Museum. There was only one fault to him: he was a foreigner. Mrs Turner did not approve of such things, but not quite so strictly as to refuse a paying client. Moreover, several weeks on, she came to count the professor among the rank of most virtuous and reliable of all London's foreigners she ever knew. 

Now the professor's companion, Mr Jonathan Harker, was quite a different kettle of fish: to him she took an instant liking. The young lawyer had nice enough looks, was always polite, spoke kindly and even graced her, on more than one occasion, with a free professional consultation. He did, at times, seem to look back into his past, getting lost in memories even in the middle of a small talk, and then it looked as if a shadow went across his face, – just for a brief moment though, he got control of himself quite quickly – and then, the early grey locks among his fair hair became more noticeable. Mrs Turner's son in law, Leonard, started to get grey as early as at 26, and by 35 his temples showed definitely signs of baldness, but that was hereditary, nothing more. Mr Harker, on the other hand, the landlady concluded, must have undergone quite a blow to his soul at some point, and now tried, for want of a chance to heal it completely, at least drown the pain somehow, by fully throwing himself into his work

Professor Van Helsing, who, among all other things had a degree in law, occupied the rooms on second floor. Jonathan Harker dwelled on third one. So they came down to the reception hall to meet the clients. Mrs Turner was all right with the visits – until recently, when among the guests she started to notice some rather strange and less than respectable individuals: indeed, how can a person you can see right through, literally, be counted as respectable? She even played with a thought of – very regretfully – denying her tenants a further stay, yet by some reason stopped short of it every time. Perhaps, she sighed inwardly, she needed a stronger will, but then again, even the strangest customers of Prof Van Helsing and Mr Harker never really did her any harm, whereas the aforesaid gentlemen never failed to pay their rent. 

November brought about a sudden snowfall in London. The roofs were blanketed in white, so were the tree branches, whereas on the pavements the snow had blackened already, becoming a homogenous mix with ever-present mud. 

"What a calm evening we have here", – Jonathan noticed, sitting back on the sofa and crossing his legs. 

He came back from Yorkshire at five. He was there about the business of one of the new clients – it took him several days and, by his own confession, he returned freezing, starved nearly to death and hopelessly late for dinner. Mrs Turner threw her hands up and was close to arranging the supper before its scheduled time. Knowing the landlady, it compared easily to a moderate Apocalypse, but the tenant assured her he could well wait – would be just enough time for him to change, take his rest near the fireplace and kill some hour or two by talking with the Professor.

Van Helsing readily joined the young man – he was itching to learn all the circumstances first hand: after all, this was a case which would scare most regular London lawyers away. To compensate his inability to join his partner on the trip, the Professor demanded the report in full detail.

For the "Helsing and Harker" company, this case was both par for the course and extraordinary. 

Shakespeare kept the cause of feud between Montecchis and Capulets secret from the general public. In contrast, the source of feud between the Bigsby and Gosling families – which was about just as heated as anything in the famous play – was out in the open and well-documented. It all started from an unfortunate bet at the Queen's Races. Since then, six monarchs in a row observed the continued performance of several generations of two equally noble lines sophisticatedly annoying, spurning and ruining each other. 

Ages came and went, the era of humanism was nigh. Poison, daggers and duel pistols were getting decidedly out of fashion. Yet the families kept their ground, even forced to change the preferred tactics. As a result, the royal patience ran out somewhere after Wilhelm IV's coronation, and both troublemakers were exiled from the capital city – "the farther, the better".

Perhaps, the passing years dulled the flames of enmity somewhat, and the battles were transferred from the literal field into the area of instigating mutual irritation. Life in Yorkshire is normally dull and measured. Or rather, it had been – until new residents arrived. Gosling acquired a property not far away from Bigsby, just so he could regularly trespass, poach and come up with a variety of other inventive ways to get to the neighbour's guts. In return, Bigsby built a humongous, horribly ugly barn interfering intensely with Gosling's view of the landscape. Endless law suits, providing certain servants of the civil jurisdiction, if not with entire fortunes, then at least long and stable sources of income, bloomed and blossomed and went down the line from father to son, until finally, a heart attack put a stop to Sir Arthur Gosling's life at the age of 64. Francis Bigsby outlived his rival for half a year, then lung inflammation made him share sir Arthur's fate. 

Sir Arthur's only heir turned out to be his great-nephew, who, due to his way of thinking and being rather distantly related (and located) to the gentleman, proved to be less than well-versed in the particulars of the family life. Having received the inheritance, the first thing he chose sensible to do was making peace with the neighbours. Francis Bigsby's son, despite being brought up to family traditions, was remarkably prone to having common sense and also found leaving the past to the past the most logical solution. Besides, he had two daughters, and the eldest one took a – quite mutual – liking to his new neighbour. The happy ending was on the horizon – and that was when the late Sir Arthur and the late Sir Francis got into the picture.

It would be unfair to say that either of the heirs was all that much against the ghosts wandering around. After all, the family spirits and all these blood-curling stories related to them had always been a part of good old English ways. But there had to be manners. A knight in rusting armour, lamenting the parting with a gone "belamour" can count on sincere sympathies, or even a teardrop or two from impressive maids of romantic persuasion. The ghosts of noblemen who survived half a dozen wives in their time, just to save on divorce proceedings, may have a chance for at least some understanding. But it's quite different in case of a scrappy provincial lord who made it his mission to call the heirs "to their senses".

The priest requested to perform an exorcism, failed miserably, but, paradoxically, these new obstacles strengthened the united front of the heirs. A week later, together, they knocked on the door of a certain house in Westwick Gardens.

Jonathan tended to view a less than solid state of some participants of the case as circumstantial, without considering it much of a problem. He studied the material evidence, documents and laws for the best part of a week, and then, arming himself with a thick notebook, full of excerpts, a pack of books and polished spirit-calling board, he made his way to Yorkshire. It wasn't the first time he talked to the otherworldly, though normally much more trivial tasks were involved, like verifying the will of a deceased (once he had to find said will first, though the help was readily available from the undead spirit himself, who, whilst alive, was very meticulous, only just as much forgetful… the very memory of that ghost always made Jonathan smile). 

Solving the posthumous suit between Bigsby and Gosling took three sessions, at which angry protests of the dead were invariably smashed by irresistible arguments from the lawyer. As it turned out, Her Majesty's laws and powers were still valid beyond the grave – or, to be precise, no laws could be found which would testify otherwise. On pains of being exiled to the Hunter's Tower on the border between the lands, Sir Arthur and Sir Francis had to accept their lot, whereas the heirs showed some grace by allowing them to stay in the respective properties, watching the life and rise of the families. Really, it's not that often that a family can boast its own active hereditary ghost. Let alone two at once.

And such was the story which Jonathan Harker shared with the professor before supper. Van Helsing, once he stopped laughing, shook his head once more, recognising the complications of British traditions and character, and, having finished with the meal, they moved to the office room to get on with the remaining work. The winter holidays closed on them, and it was better to sort everything out in time.

Professor, as was his way, nestled at the writing desk and puffed his pipe. The clock at the door struck eight, p.m. 

"We all deserve some rest from time to time, – Van Helsing observed, rustling with the papers on the desk – but time should be spent wisely, my friend. Use your 15 idle minutes to consume the food for thought, as the food for the stomach had already been kindly provided to us… But where the heck is it?" – he interjected his own speech angrily.

"What's that?"

"The latest edition of Medicine Herald was delivered this morning, I found a curious article there, wanted to show you… and now I can't find the damn magazine!"

"All high the idleness! – Jonathan laughed, but in next moment he turned dead serious. – Professor… do you hear anything?"

"I don't seem to. Should I?"

"I don't know. It might be nothing, but… A strange sound, perhaps, just a wind. But way too musical…"

Van Helsing stopped going through the papers. He strained his ears for couple of seconds, then shook his head. Harker shrugged. 

"And yet I will distract you with something while you take your rest, – Van Helsing persisted. – That's what they sent from the British Research Fund in Egypt. Take a look", – he passed a letter to his colleague. 

The essence of the news got down to the following: one of respected fund trustees, Lord Durnham, brought home a greatly preserved mummy of some tsar when coming back from his Luxor expedition – whether he omitted the tsar's name by accident or deliberately, one could not say. His colleagues from the British Museum currently were wracking their heads over deciphering the inscriptions on the coffin's sides – and what they had managed to wrestle from those so far promised to drop a proverbial bomb on the entire scientific community. The mummy was meant to go public in several months. But Lord Hamilton, the chairman of the fund, was deeply worried about whether it being exhibited here could lead to a judicial incident, so he took it upon himself to turn to Professor Van Helsing, whose reputation… etc. 

"He didn't specify what kind of incident that might be", – on returning the letter to the Professor, Jonathan sounded genuinely disappointed. 

"Alas, I know no better than you do. And, as you see, I tomorrow on three o'clock I am invited over to dinner with the Chairman. In… – van Helsing looked at this watch – 18 hours he will give all the detail there is. Meanwhile, I suggest you drop any tasks at hand you might have and leaf through something archaeological". 

Jonathan nodded his agreement and brought several magazines and books from the shelves. On his way down the stairs me met Mrs Turner, who had a tea set on the tray. He held the door for her.

"How nice of you! – exclaimed Van Helsing happily, rising from his chair. – My good friend and I were just considering having some tea, and our good landlady seemed to hear our thoughts".

Mrs Turner shook her head. – "I just know that it is your usual tea time". – And she got to arranging the pieces, from a little kettle to milk pot, on the table, shifting the pile of papers to the edge.

"What do you think, Jonathan, – the professor whispered loudly, – could it be that our landlady happens to be an angel?"

"Stop it, – Mrs Turner winced. – I'd rather you tell me where did you hide your violin". 

Van Helsing and Jonathan exchanged glances.

"I am not much of a music admirer, – Professor noted, – and besides, could not play to save my life, so I don't keep violins".

Mrs Turner tilted her head in disbelief and looked around in case the tenant did disguise the wretched instrument as something else.

"Maybe our cherished landlady would be so kind to explain what caused the question?"

"When I prepared the tray for you, – Mrs Turner replied – I heard some sounds and thought, at first, that the neighbours' boy got to torture some poor cat. But the lad left for a college. I pushed my hearing some further. The source of the sound was upstairs. I even climbed the ladder, but it stopped before I got there…"

She paused before leaving, to make sure there was nothing in the room to produce strange sounds – no cat, no violin, nor some strange foreign devices. 

"It might still be a wind", – Jonathan muttered pensively, coming over to the window. In it, he saw large, furry snowflakes fall, covering the tracks of a late passer-by, crossing the road in a hurry. Snow became thicker and faster by a minute. Wind blew, whirling the snowflakes around, throwing them against the window glass. Something suddenly flickered among the streams of snow; the young man came closer and focused on it… the snowflakes' dance changed, they suddenly composed a clear image of a face – a calm one and uncannily familiar at that. Jonathan recoiled, unable to contain his shock, but as he tried to take another closer look at the amazing picture, the face vanished, having dissipated in multitude of snowflakes. 

"Anything interesting outside, Jonathan?"– Van Helsing inquired from the depths of his armchair. 

"No, just a pipe dream, – young man shook his head and rubbed his eyes. – We better go about all the immediate business tomorrow morning".

"You do look tired, – professor agreed. – Out you go, then, and relax".

Alas, that was to remain in the realm of sweet dreams, brutally ended with a loud knock in the front door. There was little hope of it being a late shop delivery, nor did postmen bring any items at such time of night; as for the guests, they tended to visit in the broad daylight, and, for that matter, give a fair warning in advance. Shortly, it could only be a customer. Not that it was anything out of the ordinary: some sort of business visitors of Mr Van Helsing and Mr Harker decidedly preferred to stay inside until dark – due to personal circumstances.

A sound of hasty steps came from the corridor, and Mrs Turner appeared, following a polite knocking.

"Mr Harker, a gentleman who chose not to name himself, wishes to see you, – she announced, offering the tenant a square bit of hard paper. – If I am to believe him, you will be glad to see him". Then, having held out a theatrical pause, she added: "He is a foreigner. I told him to wait in the reception hall". 

Jonathan accepted the card, did a double take and, looking amazed, passed it on to the professor. Van Helsing shook his head with equal surprise, having glanced at the name on the card. Both headed for the door with a great deal of excitement, all tiredness and hopes for the rest seemingly gone from their minds.

The person awaiting them in the hall, rose and bowed the moment he saw them. He was dressed in an old fashioned, tightly-buttoned dark frock – a short, ugly man with a pale face and hunched, nearly aquiline figure. There was next to no neck under a big bald head with dark locks hanging on each side, nor colour to his vague features. A rough scar, stretching from his left temple almost to his chin, easily drew anyone's attention to it.

"Good night, Herr Harker, – he greeted. – I am to make my apologies for a late visit". 

The guest spoke a very thickly accented English, choosing words with difficulty. His speech was reasonably comprehensible, but it clearly took him some effort.

"I remember you, – professor interjected. – Igor, are you not? A year ago, at the castle of your lord, Count von Vi…"

Igor grunted and gurgled, interrupting Van Helsing's speech, shook his head violently and pressed his finger tightly across his lips, calling for silence. 

"No names named, – he hissed. – His grace is to insist to keep everything secret".

"As you wish, – Jonathan agreed. – So, what business can his grace have with a humble solicitor?"

Igor fished a long envelope out of his pocked and handed it to the young man. Jonathan used his paper knife and took the folded letter out. Evidently, the contents genuinely astonished him, for he read the letter twice and then passed it on to his companion. Professor Van Helsing arranged his glasses, took a brief look and grinned.

"As was to be expected, my friend, – he remarked jokingly, – your professional level could not go unnoticed by the most graceful Count von…"

"Not to name names!" – Igor reminded.

"No, just hear that, – Van Helsing went on, quoting aloud – ‘Invaluable service you not so long ago rendered to our family give me reason to believe you can be trusted with handling the most delicate matters". And he is right, I'll be damned! I myself couldn't make a better choice for a representative of esteemed Transylvanian family in England". 

Jonathan let this pass. For a moment, it seemed to him he heard the actual voice speaking those words – a rich baritone fully in compliance with impeccably aristocratic manners. Anyone would recognise the count as a true gentleman, save for certain habits, which, alas, were par for the course of his nature. 

"The count is to have a son, – Igor declared. – Aurel Atilla, the only heir. He is to come to London for some time, about personal business… The count is to want that yu did him… how is it… look after. He is not to know particulars of the local custom and is to have a fiery temper. No want to be mis… misunderstanding". 

"Apparently, the previous visit here by one of the members of this… – Van Helsing paused, striving for an appropriate word – …this kind is still remembered. In certain circles, that is. If the Count means to follow the example of Count Dra… oh, yes, not to name names".

"Mr Igor is right", – Jonathan sighed, getting up. He paced a bit, as if lost in thought, then abruptly turned to the visitor, hovering over him. "No bloodthirsty madmen, – he all but hissed. – No sudden illnesses or disappearances".

"The Count is to be brought up as a gentleman! – Igor responded solemnly. – He is to be a heir to his noble father and not like… – he stumbled, then continued – not like that other count!"

"We're counting on it", – Van Helsing nodded.

Igor got a purse from his other pocket – an ancient, leathery item of the type, probably, en vogue for the times several centuries ago, and pulled a thin lace. Several coins, glittering bright yellow in the light of the gas lamp, came out on the table. There was no doubt about them being pure gold. Transylvanians valued their traditions. Van Helsing nodded again, took the purse and weighed it in his hand. Judging by impression on his face, the reward was more generous than he could expect. 

"With your permission, I'll put the money away to the safe, – he said. – And tomorrow it is out to the bank for us".

"One request more, – Igor said. – Young master it to rent a room at a hotel, good hotel, but many people, it appears bad". 

"I reckon… I hope, – Van Helsing noted, – young m… Count does not dine there?"

Igor's lips curled, indicating that their owner appreciated the collocutor's sense of humour. 

"Young master is not to behave stupidly, – he assured. – But he is to want to rent a winter house. Young master is to say: ‘I am to want expensive and beautiful'. And Igor is to say – ‘quickly, too'."

Jonathan drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair absent-mindedly, overpowered by memories. He too looked for a house once, and as well, it was for a guest from Transylvania, and to what a tragic result it led! Van Helsing put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed a little, as if waking him up from a nightmare.

"I get it, – Jonathan said promptly, nodding to the professor. – Your lord requires an accommodation that would be up to the standards of his position and habits, as soon as possible, money no object".

"You are to understand correctly, – Igor nodded earnestly and rose. – I am to return to the hotel fast. Young master is to wait". He smiled widely, which made his face lopsided and almost unbearable to look at. "Thank you, no showing out".

When the door closed behind the visitor, Jonathan, unable to contain his curiosity, moved over to the window looking out to the street and shifted the curtain slightly. Wind had grown stronger, turning a snowfall into a blizzard which would blow away any late walker, but not this short, hunched figure which limped along through the storm as easily as if it would be a walk in a park on a bright summer day. Looking closer, the young man realised why it was so: not a single flake even touched Igor's frame.


	3. Another victim

It was quarter to eight. But the early winter twilight turned into darkness some while ago, and the last thing anyone would want at the time was coming out to the bleak streets. Nevertheless, whatever the weather, the Blue Hog pub was never empty. There were regular customers, coming for a pint on nightly basis, and then there were newcomers, drawn by the light and choosing to stay a bit longer. There was no point trying to discern anything sensible out of the constant buzz of voices which reigned supreme in the pub – unless, of course, the speaker talked directly to you. The words and phrases combined unpredictably and there was often an unexpected meaning to the result…

Bartholomew Field was drunk, knew it and, more to the point, that was the idea to begin with, from the moment he stepped into the pub – to disappear into the alcoholic oblivion, among the strangers, far away from his regular surroundings. He downed more than five beers – he could tell because that was his first order, before moving on to whisky. Past that point, the details on the amount of what he took in got fuzzy. Perhaps, it was there glasses. Or maybe four. Hardly more than six, though – or did his drunken eyes see more than there really was? Talkers around him changed, faded and merged into the one big face which, as if he was raving, was different every next second – but he didn't care. Most likely, nor did they – as soon as tomorrow they wouldn't remember anything of what was being said, anyway. Oh, the joy of sudden sincerity, driven by the alcoholic spirits! He decided to memorize this phrase at least, so he could write it down and use when an occasion would present itself. 

As long as he didn't have to talk to this one.

"Geoffrey Campbell, I'll be dead and darned! Get out of here!"

"Come on Barthy, don't be silly, – young man who came up to him sounded patient. – It's well enough for you".

"I say, go to hell! That's where the liars and traitors like you belong!"

Field aimed a blow, but, rather than knocking couple of teeth out or at least wipe this damn compassion from the accursed snoot, lost his balance and would, sure as heck, fall down, if not for the mercy of the would-be victim. 

"We'll discuss it tomorrow as gentlemen", – Geoffrey Campbell concluded, fishing out a crumpled bank note from his pocket with one hand, while holding the drunken mate up with another. 

There was no question of Field making it to the exit on his own – at most, there was enough strength left to make four steps altogether, the fifth took the last remaining steadiness out of his legs and they started to give way. So Campbell put Bartholomew's hand over his own shoulder and dragged him out to the streets, in the hope that winter air will make its healing and sobering effect, freezing mind-dimming alcohol vapours out. 

Light frost of day, rendering the snow beneath the feet pleasantly crispy, got more intense at the dusk, and in a few minutes Geoffrey's fingers felt rather numb even in solid gloves. Field, though, didn't seem to feel any cold at all – the inebriate brains have their own ways and responses – while his comrade tucked his hands deeply into his pockets and cringed, cursed himself for short-sightedness: couldn't he think to cloth more warmly in advance? Cabs passed this area often enough, readily offering a ride to intoxicated frequenters of the local pubs, and there was always one waiting across the street… always, but not now. It looked, on the whole, as if the last wheel track was left in the snow path a while ago. Geoffrey reached for a whistle, but before he had time to use it, four-wheeled wagon appeared from the alleyway and stopped right beside them. The driver in a brown coat, wrapped in a huge plaided scarf nearly up to his eyebrows, opened the door.

"Need a ride, gentlemen?" – the voice was muffled under all these layers of cloth. 

"Yes, thank you!"

It proved quite a chore to make Bartholomew Field get in. Finally having packed him into the carriage and into a relatively sitting position, Geoffrey sat nearby, leaned out of the window and gave the coacher his address. Nodding, the man took the reigns. The rhythmic clicking of the hooves lulled passengers to sleep, and in a minute Bartholomew fell silent and started to snore. Geoffrey let out a sigh of relief – all that was left was to get the drunken fellow home and ask somebody in the house to help him into the bed. Then off home it is, perhaps, with the same cab. And tomorrow they'll sort it out like grown-ups – it was not a good idea to end years of friendship because of such a trifle.

The horse moved levelly, and level was the road, just the hooves clicking along it. Geoffrey did not look out – the view there couldn't incite much of interest even in the summertime, let alone the winter night, prompting the only wish and thought: get back home, to the warm fireplace and good supper. So when he noticed that the cab turned into a tight dark lane, it was much too late.

"What's the matter?" – he demanded, but the coacher didn't hear him… or chose not to.

With one last screech of wheels, the horse stopped. Geoffrey pushed the cab's door and realised it was to no avail. He reached for another door, on which sleepy Bartholomew Field leaned, but again, all efforts were in vain. They were trapped! The mad cabman locked them inside.

In despair, he started to beat against the barrier with his fists, kicked the door – no use. Heaving with his back against the backrest, he tried to calm his heartbeat and get some breath back, and then something heavy fell on the roof, rocking the entire structure. One more hollow hit, much weaker, then another… and suddenly, a face looked into the window, from the above. The ends of the scarf, now loose, dangled on each side and so did dirty, uncut and dishevelled locks, but the man caught in a trap couldn't take his eyes off those on this face – burning, yellow, with narrow, vertical, animal pupils… and off blood-curling, yellow-toothed grin, as if tearing that face in two in one horrible lash.

Lo and behold, something clicked and the door flung open, but before Geoffrey had time but to stir, a long arm rushed in, seized a handful of his coat with incredible force and threw him out of the carriage. Falling down, he received a painful hit and it took some while before sudden blackness in front of his eyes dissolved a bit. Shaking his head he tried to rise on hands and knees and turn around. It took him two attempts to manage it. 

There were no lanterns in this alleyway, but it was fool moon, so Geoffrey had enough light to see a dark hunch of the cab at the distance, as well as moving blob of darker substance on its roof. The cabman hanged over the edge, looked into the carriage, dived in, climbed back on the roof again, now with a load. He straightened to his full height, raised something oblong above his head and threw it down to the ground. It fell right beside, Geoffrey moved to take a closer look – and recoiled, terrified. Bartholomew Field lay down on his stomach, but his face looked upwards. As if transfixed, the young man could neither run nor cry out for help – his tongue stirred silently in suddenly dry mouth.

The coacher jumped down lightly, showing the agility no man could possess, came closer and crouched. His hand moved swiftly into Geoffrey's pocked, fished around, then got into the second pocket and came out with a purse and a watch. Just a robber?

"T-take it, – Geoffrey managed coarsely. – Take it all. Just, I pray to God, I beg you…"

The robber opened the purse, rustled the banknotes, locked the purse and pocketed it. Then hovered over the victim again, grabbed the man's collar and in one jerk raised him to the air, with one hand, with no sign of any effort. What kind of creature was that?

The cabman rose another hand – the watch, formerly the property of Geoffrey Campbell, glittered dully in it. 

"Run, – he growled, clicking his nail, looking much more like a claw, on the glass close to where the minute hand was. – You have ten minutes".

With that, he let go of his victim and, turning away, went back to the cab. Another incredible, inhuman leap – and there he was, on its top again. 

"Ruuun!" – the creature screamed and burst into a hyena-like laughter. 

Geoffrey somehow managed to get up – and ran. It was not a steady run, he felt thrown around like a rag doll, his legs were about to give way any second, but run he did, chased by a beastly howl behind him.

*********

The entrance door's bang was muted, followed by a sound of light steps, then a susurration, then another door went. Igor stopped his writing, put the pen into the inkwell and rose from the desk: the master had come home. 

Aurel Atilla stretched nonchalantly on the squab, his hands under his head. He was still in his parade attire, crumpling the expensive cloth ruthlessly. The outer coat, carelessly thrown on the armchair, touched the floor, one daisy decorated the centre of the room exotically, whereas another got tucked into a corner like some poor relative. What a metaphor or allegory for someone after this sort of thing, well-gifted with rich imagination and mastery of dreams! In other words – someone completely unlike Igor. He was a servant of the type which is valued for their skills and boundless loyalty, not for the colourful speech or original thinking. 

Igor took the coat away from the chair, picked up both daisies and left for the hall, but not before gracing the young lord with a glance filled with silent reproach. This was the look which would shatter the armour of cruellest of hearts, instil remorse in the most hardened cynics, prompting them hang their heads in shame, get filled with remorse and start about redeeming their sins. Over the Count, it glided and scattered in a dust without making a slightest effect.

Having hung the coat where it belonged, Igor got to the daisies.

Looking after the lord's clothing and footwear was something he would never trust the attendance with, be that the attendance of the best hotel in the city. In fact, he would never trust them with anything, and so insisted on personally overseeing even the slightest of tasks. The maidservants were more than a little wary of Igor and tried, when possible at all, to stay away from the sights of the ugly valet of aristocratic foreigner from the luxury apartments. On the other hand, this particular tenant didn't require any special services, other than permanent "do not disturb" instruction, while being really generous with the tips. 

Once finished, Igor came back to the reception. The squab was still occupied firmly by Aurel, but he used the time to drape in an ornamental rest-gown, bought for a crazy kind of money. Coming to think of it, the same went for a lot of other things he bought – upon arrival to London the Count renewed his stock of clothes completely. First two days of his stay were spent on endless journeys around the fashion boutiques in Oxford Street and Strand. Names came and went, and there was no shop Aurel would leave sooner than in two full hours and without totally exhausting the sellers and, for good measure, his own servant as well. London definitely lived up to its status of the men's fashion world capital, Count felt like a fish in a water, assistants rushed around, loaded with various items of all brands imaginable, and Igor quietly dreamed of getting back home, in the mountains, where nothing but wind's howl and wolves' songs ever broke the blissful silence and the fashion had been staying the same for the last several centuries.

There was no question, of course, of even hinting at showing his true feelings – not with a word, not with a sigh, neither directly to the young master, nor in a letter to the count (he, naturally, wrote him twice a week, reporting first the European tour and then the English stay to the finest detail).

"Will your grace be disposed to have a supper?" – he asked.

"No. I had my meal at the reception", – the Count ceremoniously tipped the ends of his mouth with a blindingly white laced handkerchief, showing a couple of small spots of blood.

The servant frowned: "It could be dangerous!"

"Ah, Igor, drop it! By Jove, you take me for a brainless child or do you think I will fashion myself after the dear uncle? What a faux pas! My dish went home well and good and will never remember a thing". 

"It is not the way it is done in the society…"

"Not done? Hah! – Aurel elegantly jumped to his feet in one move. – You starting to sound like papa! Constantly wringing his hands over what other will think! I got fed up with the commoners, – he added in a quieter tone. Besides, high society here is exceedingly fascinating. Worth of becoming a subject of some satirical story, even, and perhaps, I might set about it, upon getting some free time and inspiration. Indeed, why not to for the path of a creative writing? Though, I must admit, London is hardly a good motivation for any kind of creative work. Ah, if only papa wasn't so indisposed towards Paris for some uncanny reason! Why should he be so stubbon?"

"London suits your aims better, – Igor reminded, getting about gathering items of clothing, scattered around the armchairs and the floor itself. – Was there any fitting candidate at the reception?"

"Alas, for the menu items alone, – Aurel sounded wistful. – But I did make several nice acquaintances, and besides, receive an invitation to decorate another ball and four receptions with my regal presence. It's likely that written invitations will start to arrive as soon as tomorrow. To be a man of society, Igor, – he intoned didactically, – one has to have strong spirit, and the according physicality is needed as well". 

"There is a chance to be introduced to the maids of high birth, – Igor grunted as if to himself. – When will this finally happen?"

Count didn't let it pass – he grimaced violently, momentarily baring his fangs, which looked notably longer and sharper than usual.

"You're killing me, papa and you alike! – he exclaimed. – The father exerts full scale of despotism and tyranny, and you won't empathise even a bit – you, who are supposed to take a good care of me!"

"The orders of the Lord Count! – Igor responded solemnly. –He only strives for your well-being, while performing the hard and unrewarding duties of the head of the family, and truly hard and unrewarding they are!"

Aurel waved Igor's words away as some tiring flies – it was not the first time the servant reprimanded him and, most certainly, it would not be the last, – pulled the curtain and came out to the balcony. This position gave a wonderful view of the city, but Aurel looked another way – above it, into the starry night, at a nearly fool moon suspended tantalisingly in the air. It was a frosty day but he didn't feel any cold. The moonlight touched his face, got around the silhouette and for a second the young man looked like a frozen silver statue. Sudden blow of a wind tried to rush at his face but stopped in its tracks when a whirl of a delicate palm blocked its way – and softened obediently, wrapping around the thin fingers. 

"I'll take a walk, – Aurel announced. – All these high society duties don't leave one any time for anything else. The father would not approve, he has also been for a healthy lifestyle".

"What if dawn catches you when you're out?"

Aurel's face contorted with a grimace.

"Do they even have any sun here? But I feel a bit tried. Perhaps, it would be wiser to postpone the walk until the eve. Get a suit ready for me… or, rather, two of them, I'll choose when I'm rested".

With that, grabbing a tome of sonnets from the table loaded with books and fashion magazines, the Count retreated to the bedroom.

Igor, in turn, got back to his small room and to the desk again: the letter should be finished and sent. 

He dipped the pen into the inkwell, and went on where he left off – at the half-phrase about hiring a local lawyer who undertook to represent the noble Aurel Atilla's interests in London for the time of the latter's stay there. The figures of the fee were presented on a separate sheet of paper, notes and remarks supplied, the bills of today attached (eight silk shirts, three ties and five pairs of gloves, to be precise). 

"You know, three would be better", – came from behind the shut bedroom doors.

His grace really should take a rod to his heir's backside, to put some sense in him, Igor thought while continuing his calculations – and immediately admonished himself for such a thought.

********* 

"They write, lately the number of animal attacks against good Londoners increased, – Van Helsing noted, sipping his coffee. – The stray dog service works overtime, but the amount of the victims won't come down. I am starting to doubt the wisdom of choice to move to your capital city".

Jonathan grinned at this refrain of a joke. They had their breakfast as usual, at the common hall on the first floor. Annie cooked wonderfully. So she did not to treat the tenants with rare delicacies (that was reserved for special occasions), but every dish was thoroughly enjoyable for the gentlemen maintaining active lifestyle and, therefore, requiring regular tasty and substantial meals. Occasionally Van Helsing advised Jonathan, "as a medic", not to combine eating and reading, but then promptly went on not to follow his own recommendations. 

"Do you think it's that acquaintance of ours who deprived me from my favourite coat?" – Jonathan inquired. 

"Not hardly. That one would not stop at couple of bites. Then again, there might be a connection: when a shapeshifter is around, normal dogs become more aggressive, too. Anyway, any encounter involving him will invariably end up becoming a part of criminal news".

"So, a werewolf after all, – Mr Harker sighed. – Did you get your hands on any information about them?"

"I did, on a lot on information, which is yet to be analysed and systematised. I have a feeling it will take a considerable amount of time".

"One more monster in London, all hail, – Jonathan sounded irritated. – Like the one that has just hired me was not enough. The last thing I could imagine when passing my barrister grades was that I would land a position of vampire's trustee in the end! Was it calmer here before my journey to Transylvania or was I simply not observant enough and blind to what seems so clear and present now?"

"That's just human. Console yourself with a silver lining effect. We have acquired new clients and helped those who badly needed help but couldn't go the regular way to get protection from the law. Starting from our sweet count von…"

"No naming names!" – Jonathan mocked, and both companions laughed heartily.

The professor turned a page of the morning paper and lost himself in the news, while Mr Harker went about spreading jam on toasts.

"Oh, here they do mention a werewolf, – Van Helsing reported, looking at one of the articles. – Mr Geoffrey Campbell insists he was attacked by a manlike monster who chased him along the streets of London and killed his friend Bartholomew Field… At the moment, Mr Campbell has been remanded in custody… A sheer absurd!"

Jonathan's hand froze.

"Geoffrey Campbell? Under arrest?"

"What's that, Jonathan? – professor was visibly surprised. – Do you know him?"

"Yes, – his companion held out his hand sharply. – May I?"

Van Helsing passed the paper to him, marking the article in question. Having read it quickly, Jonathan rubbed his brow with his fingers, as if refusing to believe what he saw – or thought.

"This is madness, – he finally managed. – Detained on suspicion of assisting murder, Geoffrey Campbell! He wouldn't hurt a fly! This is some terrible misunderstanding! – He paused briefly. – Professor, I intended to look for a house suitable for the Count today". Professor nodded, anticipating what his comrade was about to say next. "I'm afraid…"

"Considering the circumstances, I see nothing wrong with you postponing this particular endeavour".

"Thank you ever so much", – Jonathan meant every word. He rose from the table, leaving his breakfast all but untouched. Even his beloved coffee remained cooling in its mug. 

In minutes, young man was in the streets, waving frantically to an unoccupied cab.

…It proved to be not that easy a task, to get an interview with the detainee: the bobbies were not keen to let outsiders into the case, lawyers in particular. But Jonathan Harker was not one to give up easily, either. Having wasted nearly two hours on pointless and meaningless arguing, he was in the end rewarded for his patience and resilience by an appearance of one Inspector Lewis, with whom he had a history of several professional encounters. The good Inspector was little happier than his colleagues about Mr Harker's visit – and, considering the circumstances, it could be well understood – but he did not deny him cooperation altogether.

For a meeting with Geoffrey Campbell they allowed them a tiny dark den, looking even more miserable in presence of a crude table and two backless stools near it. The third one, a little further in the distance, was occupied by a towering policeman. All Jonathan's attempts for privacy could be just as well directed at a brick wall. To be fair, there was nothing else to be expected: he was not Campbell's official solicitor and the very conversation only took place for the grace of Inspector Lewis. He was not in a position to complain. At least, not before he's talked to a friend in distress.

One cursory glance at the drooping silhouette of Geoffrey Campbell was enough to see that the man was in completely low spirits. They were of the same age and knew each other from childhood, they grew up in the same street and went to the same school, but at the moment, it looked to Jonathan as if the man opposite him was 20 years his senior. Could an arrest and only one night in the custody leave such horrible mark on him, wipe his usual ruddiness, painting his cheeks grey instead, and chiselling deep tracks on his face? Geoffrey raised his head and Jonathan read in his eyes, clear as day: there was another reason. Namely, it was an encounter with a supernatural evil, still reflecting in the depth of Geoffrey's pupils and having firm hold on its victim. He survived something like this about a year ago. 

"Harker! – Geoffrey bravely tried a smile, and it took him some effort. – I didn't expect to see you here!"

"Likewise, – Jonathan replied. – This is a total madness".

"Truer word could never be spoken – that it is. It is as if I was sleeping and in the middle of a nightmare, without any chance to wake up. I haven't been here for a 24 hours yet, but my mind plays games with me already, and sometimes, it feels like days. I'm so glad to see you! – he suddenly exclaimed heartily. – At least someone here doesn't go out of his way to land me in prison forever".

"My goal is the opposite, – Jonathan assured him. I will do my best to get you out of here, as soon as possible, but you have to tell me everything. Everything and anything and to detail".

Geoffrey gave him another tortured smile.

"I told the bobbies several times already. It seems, they haven't quite decided yet whether to pin me down as madman or liar, but one thing is for sure: they didn't believe a single word. Why, I wouldn't believe it myself, even despite all these awful stories in the papers lately about a wild beast attacking right in the middle of London. But, by the Almighty, what I saw was not a dream, and was neither a human nor an animal, but the spawn of the hell itself!" – he felt silent trying to gather his thoughts. His memories clearly hurt him, but, no matter how cruel, there was no way around making him relieve it all.

"Start from the beginning, – Harker advised. – Why did you fell out with Bartholmew? I talked with some of them, that was one of the grounds for your arrest", – he explained, showing as clearly as possible that he was all ears.

"The story is as old as this world, and just about as trivial, – Campbell sighed. – Do you know Eliza Hopkins?" Jonathan shook his head. "I could talk of her for hours, but suffice it to say that it is the kindest, most charming girl in the world and I was in seventh heaven when she said yes to my proposal. Do you know this feeling when you are so happy you could hug the entire world?"

"Yes, I went through something like that once", – Jonathan Harker responded quietly. Campbell caught his glance and stopped abruptly.

"Forgive me. I know that your wife is dead. My condolences".

Harker nodded brusquely and gestured for his friend to continue.

"It turned out, my pal Bartholomew Field also fell a victim of Eliza's charms. I swear to God, I didn't know a thing about his feeling, nor did she give him any hope. But her refusal proved to hurt him deeply and the news of upcoming wedding rendered even a harder blow. We met yesterday and, out of the best of intentions, I suggested he would celebrate the betrothal with us – and he thought me a traitor, and didn't hesitate to say so. I must admit, I did not let it pass, and we said to each other a lot, much of what we had instantly regretted, me at least. We parted in anger. After an hour or so, having had time to chill out, I thought that the years of our friendship should prevail, so we had to sort it out like gentlemen we were. I went over to Barthy's but didn't find him there. Having talked with the servants, I realised which way he went and followed him. It took me almost the entire night to find him. Don't remember which pub it was where I finally found him, out and out drunk…"

Geofrrey went on to tell how his nearly numb comrade and himself become terrorised with a cabman, how a dead body fell to the snow near him, how he ran along the narrow lanes expecting a monster's breath to touch his neck every second…

"We have known each other for years, Harker, and you know I'm not a shrinking violet, but last night I lived through a horror itself. He… or should I say, it… this beast hunted me as a wild animal, but no, there is no such cruelty to animals, they chase their prey for food, not for sheer evil sport".

"How did you come out of it alive?"– Jonathan asked.

"I was lucky. I had no idea where this madman took us, I just ran down the alleys, didn't think where they led… at first. I don't know how long it took me, now I think, several hours, though in truth it must be much less, of course. But suddenly I found myself in a place I knew: many years ago my uncle lived there, I visited him often as a child. I banged on the doors of the first house nearby and, thank all gods, they opened. Then we sent for a constable, I told him all, without going into a much detail so he didn't think me mad right out. I only said that my friend and I were attacked and that my friend seemed to be hurt, so I ran for help. It took me some effort to remember the way back and then I led the constable to the fateful spot. The cab, naturally, was long gone, and Barthy's body was still lying on the snow – even scroungers had not had a go at it yet. The policemen who arrived then went about sieving the area, looking for witnesses, someone questioned me… and I can't even remember what I said. Before I realised what was happened, I got arrested and since I came here, the questioning never stopped. Tell me, do you, at least, believe me or think me mad as well?"

"What happened to you would drive anybody man, – Jonathan looked his friend straight in the eye. –But I am absolutely certain that you didn't say a false word. The beast does exist. You are not its first victim. But you are the first to get a close look at it and live to tell the tale. – He paused. – I take it, you would rather not involve your family's attorney in this case". As Geoffrey nodded his agreement, Jonathan fished a blank sheet of paper out of his case: "You're hiring me. Right now".


	4. A life-threatening job

The porter obligingly opened the door and professor Van Helsing, cleaning his shoulders of the snowy fur with his gloves, entered "Brown" and stopped in hesitation, trying to spot lord Hamilton. The latter rose from his armchair and waved, drawing his attention. He was of tawny complexion, had a set chin telling of a decisive character, and his tar-black moustache stretched levelly and collaterally to the floor. He used to serve in Indian troops in his youth, but retired when his father's death forced him to take it upon himself to lead the house. A marriage followed – it was imposed upon him by the civic duty and didn't bring about anything but disappointment. To his sheer luck, lord Hamilton managed to find an escape: being an ardent follower of ancient history, he dedicated himself to scientific research and eventually became the head of Egypt Exploration Fund. 

Hamilton recommended a local restaurant as "the best place to taste good old English cuisine", Van Helsing expressed an intention to give the chef's art its due as soon as possible – and both gentlemen hurried towards the creme of the gourmet. Lord Darnham was supposed to keep their company. Leaving the spacious hall to follow the Egyptologist, Van Helsing seemed to spot an outline of a familiar figure deeper in the recesses of the restaurant's corridor and froze for a moment, straining his eyes against the semi-gloom. Then he hurried to catch up with his companion.

At the main restaurant, a waiter showed them into a separate function room where the table was served for three and where lord Darnham waited for them already. He was about 40, of a medium height, with a threadbare moustache and deep-tanned face of precise features. They made their respective orders and, waiting for a starter, exchanged their cards and remarks about the weather. Then lord Hamilton demonstrated an enviable mastery of changing the subject towards the right direction: from the weather he went on to the international affairs and that gave them chance to move further on to the events leading to their today's meeting.

"I want tire you with innuendos and half-truths, – the voice of Lord Darnham, to whom Lord Hamilton conceded the right to speak next, was deep and low. – It was one sheer horror of expedition. The locals there are violent fanatics, they sabotaged the digs, stole, issued threats! More than once our work was this close to going up in flames, we actually considered changing the dislocation, though, God knows, the very thought of it did not stand bearing! Being co close to the answer, giving up the further attempts…I wouldn't wish such a torture on anyone. Fortunately, I managed in the end to come to terms with the locals – not that it was in any way easy, or, for that matter, cheap, but our efforts were not in vain, and that's all that matters!"

"I'm glad that you managed to come home not just in one piece but also, no doubt, with a valuable cargo about you, – Van Helsing answered. – As I understand from the letter of esteemed Lord Hamilton, you brought back something fascinating?"

"We are still in the middle of the translation, – Lord Hamilton replied cautiously. – Some passages could be interpreted in more than one way, and in several cases the amount of possible versions goes up to ten and beyond. I would not like it if we got ahead of ourselves with trumpeting our success. However, if my presumptions will prove true, it could be a true scoop in terms of science! Why, but you, my dear Professor, look like someone who never lets business talks get in the way of a good meal!" And he laughed loudly at his own joke, whereas Van Helsing blushed and put down his knife.

"Forgive my foreign manners, – he said. – Besides, the cuisine is indeed delicious".

"I must confess, I am not one to waste time either, – Lord Hamilton nodded and armed himself with the cutlery. – So, my friend Darnham, a great expert and, so to speak, having a nose for scoops per se, – now it was Lord Darnham's turn to blush which he tried to disguise by raising his glass, – is a very enterprising man. Two years ago, I, speaking figuratively, dug out Henry Matthews' diaries from our archives. Basing on the works by Fountain and Edwards, he put forward several hypotheses regarding the Fourth Dynasty. To tell you the truth, I, as well as other gentlemen, found his conclusions unrealistic at the time. It didn't abate my friend, though. He found some sponsors for a trip, though let us refrain from personal details". Van Helsing grinned and nodded his agreement.

"Our first year was less than successful, – Lord Darnham noted. – But it did not dampen our determination".

"What is truly important, – Lord Hamilton took a little break in his speech to give its due to a marvellous roast beef, – it did not dampen financial support. Indeed, we were blessed with the benefactors who seemingly strove to throw away the veil from this mystery not any less vigorously than we did. Perhaps, even more so…"

The Yorkshire pudding arriving to complement the roast beef was so tender and puffy, it achieved the goal at which hundreds of hostile armed Egyptian failed – namely, to make the present company completely forget about the mysteries shrouded in dark recesses of history. A fragile silence filled the room – the one and only kind of it you would never mix with anything else: the one which reigns when those in the room consume a greatly cooked and correctly served meal.

"Well, – lord Darnham said, tipping his lips with a tissue, – where was I?"

"In the middle of financing", – Van Helsing smiled amicably.

"Ah, Professor, it is not the type of matters which could be considered worth of interest. Much more to the point is what lord Darnham's team uncovered. I bet, – Lord Hamilton slapped himself on the knee, – you cannot wait to find it out!"

"Afraid so, sir, – Van Helsing put both his hand in the air, as if in submission. – Your story, and you hints, got me intrigued. Frankly, from the moment I read your letter, I haven't yet stopped trying to logically deduce why the venerable head of Egypt Exploration Fund might require my modest services".

"I assure you, it has nothing to do with logic, – Lord Darnham suddenly turned dead serious. – Well, Professor, as I said, the first year was practically lost. But this Spring, we got on the trail. Now allow me to elaborate. As you most likely know, it was during the reign of the Four Dynasty of Pharaohs when the greatest, most majestic Pyramids of Gisa were erected. They have been studied – and, no doubt, will yet be studied for years – by the historians around the world. – He paused, as if to let the others appreciate the tremendousness of the moment, then went on. – But at the time I was preoccupied with the search of a rather unassuming sepulchre Sir Henry Matthews barely mentioned, as he did not find any solid evidence of its existence, other than one parchment including the name of the one for whom it was created. The Pharaoh Jemmurabi, according to the almanac of Egypt's Ancient Documents, was either a son or a brother of Snofru, and made a better scientist than he did a ruler. His official biography states that he died unexpectedly and was buried with every accolade. His sepulchre – we have excellent sketches and photographs of it now – was inscribed top to toe. Even back in Egypt my friend Lord Hamilton started to decipher the graffiti. He is still at it here in London, and the work now is drawing to a close."

Van Helsing recalled the letter. "Had the pharaoh himself been brought to London?" Lord Hamilton nodded.

"Himself, as well as some accessories and other valuables, as per the procedures, they had been, yes".

"So what was written on the sides of the sepulchre?" 

"That is exactly the business where I – we, the whole British society, in fact – need your professional consultation, professor".

"As a doctor or as a lawyer?" – Van Helsing suddenly was all business.

"Both. Judging by what we managed to decipher, Pharaoh Jemmurabi uncovered the way to immortality. He is not dead even now, but is in the state of a sacred sleep, which could be broken any minute". 

"Tell me, my lord, – Van Helsing leaned back in his chair, – tell me as a doctor, do you, yourself, believe it possible?"

"As the head of British Exploration Fund of Egypt, – Lord Hamilton knapped, – it is my duty to allow for any possibility and prevent dire consequences from happening".

"Oh", – was all Van Helsing could muster in response.

"On behalf of all the English Egyptologist I request you to study, to the smallest detail, the documents we have at our disposal, as well as the… subject in question itself. And, please, draw a conclusion, whether the Pharaoh can rise from his grave and, if so, what judicial consequences it could bring about. And what measures could be taken to avoid any lawfully unwanted outcome".

It took Van Helsing some effort to throw away the imagery of freshly-reanimated, and therefore not overly well disposed, Pharaoh, is shown a court ruling, written in several pages and certified with all kinds of stamps – after which he obediently returns to his sarcophagus, in compliance with the rule of law.

"Naturally, I would be interested to look at the esteemed Pharaoh", – he said.

Lord Hamilton promptly invited him to visit the British Museum, promising unreserved access to the repositories and all the fund's archives. All that was left was working out the particulars of the next meeting. And then a waiter arrived, with a note on a tray, for Mr Van Helsing. It consisted but of a few words, but Lord Hamilton couldn't help noticing the gleaming in Van Helsing's eye. 

"Due to certain circumstances, I have to take my leave of you, my lords, – he declared politely, rising and extending his hand. – But as soon as tomorrow I will pay His Royal Majesty Jemmurabi in his museum, and, let's hope, will manage to be of some use, though, speaking bluntly, currently I can't come one with any measures which would effectively counter a resurrected Pharaoh".

"Not to worry, Professor, the Pharaoh we will somehow handle with our own means. But, alas, it's more than what we can say about the British judicature", – Lord Darnham pointed out.

Professor left the restaurant, got the direction for the conservative from one of the baggage handlers and proceeded there decisively.

Philodendron was in full bloom at the distant corner of the display – large spadices were framed by wide hoods. A young woman was standing nearby, looked to be totally lost in admiring the flowers, and Van Helsing had to give a little cough to get her attention.

"Good day", – the responding voice sounded low and melodious, and its owner turned to the Professor. Her shoulders moved smoothly, so did her thighs, the drapes of dark blue dress swayed around the knees, laces fluttered. There was a beauty about this face, an air of confidence characteristic for a specific type of women, the jawline was firm, whereas the curls of eyebrows and lips were delicate, a Greek nose, a normocephalic skull, and, first and foremost, there was not a single sign of hyposthenia. 

"It is, because of you alone, Miss Adler, – Van Helsing bowed slightly. – I received your note. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"If I say I just wanted to enjoy your company, will you believe it? – Irene smiled in response to Van Helsing's own grin. – Then let us just say that I need a friendly advice". And she took Van Helsing's arm. They were nearly of the same height, Van Helsing sporting his usual slight stoop. "There is a wonderful tearoom here. Would you be kind enough to join me?"

"At your service", – Van Helsing responded courteously, trying to guess what kind of advice his current companion might need.

They first were thrown together by fate just a little more than a year ago. Miss Adler was about to turn a new page in her life – that marked by the name of Mrs Godfrey Norton, the wife of a respectable solicitor and lady of a big house. But, due to the history of their acquaintance (she participated in a concert in the house of Mr Norton's aunt), the circumstances surrounding their affair and finally, the betrothal veiled in the shroud of mystery – all these makings of the final part of a romance novel turned out the makings of a dramatic outcome.

"As you see, I'm back in London, – Irene started when the tea was served and the waiter disappeared without making a sound. – I can tell you are surprised… and so was I. One I thought I should had run as fast as I could and hide as thoroughly as I could".

"Are you of different mind now?" – Professor asked.

"I realised I wouldn't be able to hide effectively. Nor do I want to, any more. What happened, did happen, and now it will stay with me forever, in my memories, which won't ever stop being part of me. Nor will my new knowledge and new experiences. I will run no more. But I would like to try to start afresh, from a clean slate, buy some small villa somewhere quiet…"

"My dear lady, – said Van Helsing warmly. – It makes my heart glad to hear about your plans. I view them as a good sign: your strength of spirit seems to be returning, and it is of necessity in our days. My friend Jonathan who you remember, of course, will be as happy as now am I, and most certainly will assist you in your search and drawing of all needed papers. If this is the consultation you need, consider it at your disposal already, fully and unreservedly".

"Oh, you still work together", – Irene tasted her tea. Professor nodded, encouraging the young woman to continue with a smile. She paused, biting her lip with small level teeth. "I'm glad I met you today – it ended my doubts about wisdom of my choice". Noting her interlocutor's puzzlement, she explained: "I wondered if I should write you. I wasn't even sure you were still in London. And anyway, all this might be my imagination. But here I was, meeting you in the very hotel I stay in – I believe, it must be an omen". 

"Please, – Van Helsing said, – I am at your service".

"Have you ever experienced the situation that, once learning about something new, one starts to encounter the signs of it everywhere? – Irene started cautiously. – Even where you would least expect it to happen? You just once allow yourself to think of something as possible… and believe it real… I am sorry, Professor, I digress. To make a long story short, I was at the lady Ascot's ball yesterday. Among the guests I met there, one young man came, as he said himself, from Transylvania. Namely, Count Aurel von…"– she frowned, trying to pronounce the Transylvanian name correctly.

"Oh, – Van Helsing interjected, – that is a familiar name. So, you say he impressed you?"

"Impression is exactly what I wanted to talk to you about, – Irene said pensively. – You see, I noticed something special about his looks".

"I'm all ears", – Van Helsing moved towards her.

"First, he is unnaturally pale, deadly so, I would say. This effect is achievable if you use a good measure of theatrical make-up, but there was no make-up to speak of. At best, it might mean that he never walked under the sun, ever. And second, and the most important thing – Irene stretched her hand towards the Professor, who squeezed it in support, – you see, Professor, the young man was not reflected by any mirror!"

He looked at Van Helsing, as if saying, "Do you believe me? If yes, explain, what it was that I saw!"

Van Helsing took a sip of his own tea, then touched his lips with a tissue.

"My dear, – he said softly, – I fully understand your perplexity and was expecting this kind of questions. Let me tell you: we, the humankind, the homo sapiens, are not alone here. We share our place under the sun – though more often under its night counterpart, that is, mysterious moon – with other beings".

"That is, the Count isn't human? – Irene shuddered. – Is such a thing possible?"

"Your new acquaintance looks human. He does possess of human habits and emotions. Unfortunately, – Van Helsing sighed, – his kind is barely examined by the modern science. I would say, practically not at all". 

Irene looked like she didn't even listen, her thin fingers crumpled the handkerchief, eyes firmly focused on the porcelain of the teapot. Van Helsing patted her hand paternally. 

"It will be better for all involved, Miss Adler, if you avoid further encounters with the Count, – he suggested. – And if there will be no avoidance, try not to disclose him that you know about his little secret".

"But what is he?" – Irene turned a concentrated face towards professor, her eyebrows crinkling tragically.

"Nosferatu", – the Professor's voice was just as low.

***

Upon returning to Westwick Gardens, Professor inquired the landlady if Mr Harker was home yet, but he was still away, and worse, didn't even inform most estimable Mrs Turner if he was going to be in time for the supper, nor did he give her any word at all, for that matter. Van Helsing felt a pang of worry: the task his young colleague took upon himself could indeed be dangerous, considering the involvement of a shapeshifter. Even though it had been almost two months since their memorable encounter, Professor knew that wickedness and vindictiveness of the creature was not to be underestimated by any means. All his thoroughness notwithstanding, he still hadn't come far in his search – neither the den of the beast, nor (if his dark assumption was correct) its master.

Thankfully, he needn't worry at the time: Jonathan came home in an hour, notably tired but right as rain. Mrs Turner nodded and went about serving the table, as her tenants went up to their apartments to change for the supper.

While Annie performed her sacred kitchen rituals, Van Helsing gave his friend the details of the meeting with Lords Hamilton and Darnhams, and then, giving it some thought, chose to share the news about his conversation with Irene Adler as well. Jonathan listened to him somewhat absent-mindedly, just remarking that he would willingly assist with looking for a house, might as well, for he was already doing the same for the Count, if Miss Adler just would be kind enough to outline her preferences to him. Besides, he was in a complete agreement with his companion in that she shouldn't become any closer with the Transylvanian Count, even if he was in London absolutely legitimately and meant to keep his ways straight and well-mannered. Professor didn't ask him anything meanwhile – he waited for Harker to gather his thoughts and tell everything there was to tell on his own volition. Yet, this time didn't come until after the supper, when they ascended to the library.

"I have never had criminal cases before, – Jonathan divulged, taking thick tomes of judicial reference books from the shelves and piling them on the table. – It was always about heritage, property, divorce proceedings and such. Well, I did assist the defence in some minor crime trials. There will be a lot to study, – she glanced over the imposing stack of books resembling of a tower belonging to a middle age castle – yes, there will, and quite a thorough study it will have to be. What do you say, Professor, have I totally lost my mind?"

"You ventured to represent your friend at the court, I assume? – Van Helsing realised. – I am absolutely certain you will not fail".

"He should turn to a more experienced criminal defence lawyer, – Jonathan sighed, heaving himself onto the edge of the desk. – I spoke to a couple of barristers I know, but they declined. One did suggest a line of argument, though: a case of madness and manslaughter on the grounds of diminished responsibility. He said he could try to get him a lunatic asylum outcome instead of prison sentence". Jonathan jerked his shoulder, as if feeling cold, and Van Helsing knew full well what it was about: they had a chance to visit one such institution in the past, and the young man, who was not hardened with medical practice, surely would not be keen to repeat the experience.

"At the very least, – the lawyer went on, – I know for certain that poor Campbell is not guilty, nor is he mad. And I also know the true culprit. The only thing left is to prove it all".

"Is your friend still in custody?" – the professor inquired.

"Yes. Those accused of capital crimes are rarely bailed. I suspect, though, that he was arrested mostly out of desperation, but Geoffrey was too shaken at the time and couldn't come up with convincing explanations, and the inspector went ahead with a charge". Jonathan's voice pitch changed, mimicking the judge. "The case goes to court… No direct evidence, no witnesses, no confession – except his admission that he did fall out with the late Bartholomew Field a day before! And because the quarrel involved a woman, they found it sufficient cause to a murder! What balderdash!" 

"The moment they arrest someone, it puts in motion a chain reaction. From the arrest itself comes an irresistible urge to prove the arrested is the perpetrator, – Van Helsing commented. – This temptation is strong enough for many to fall".

"I managed to get the hearing postponed, – the lawyer said. – Usually, we in London don't like to delay things: arrested today, trialled tomorrow, hanged the day after. At least, this way I will have time to prepare somewhat… Campbell will await the trial in jail, but he was allowed to meet his fiancee first. A truly charming girl, she learned about it all from the morning papers and stormed into the police station straight away. Left quite a trail of devastation after her, too: one could thing that the premises were visited by an average-sized tornado. If I lose the case, I wouldn't put it past her to quarter me with her own bare hands".

"Tell me about the werewolf's attack", – Van Helsing requested.

"It can hardly count as a truly credible evidence, – the assistant replied. – All these circumstances… it was dark, he was shaken, dead scared, he sincerely admitted that he couldn't be sure what was really happening and what was just him seeing things. But I tend to believe what he said..." He retold to his companion everything his arrested friend shared with him, then took a notebook from his pocket and leafed in it. "I also had a chat with the constables. The murderer drove the cab, the carriage itself was found this morning, several quarters from the scene of the tragedy. It was empty and overturned, the horse struggled free and was wandering the streets. And two days ago, – he added heavily, – they found a stiffened corpse, written down as a victim of street robbery. Was identified as John Dobbs, the cabman. His employer went to the police when he failed to come in with his weekly payment and his hired coach".

"Do you suspect a link between these two tragedies?"

"The logic suggests so, – Jonathan nodded, descending into his favourite armchair. – The shapeshifter murdered the poor Dobbs to get his paws on the carriage, which he then used for his sinister deeds. More to the point, it's not the first incident. Three cabmen went missing in the two recent months, with Dobbs it makes four. Their bodies were not found, though".

"Perhaps, he uses this disguise to go after his prey, – Van Helsing said. – A London cab, routinely following its route is such a trivial, unassuming case, so good at not drawing attention!"

"Alas, I exhausted my means of inquiry, – Jonathan fingered through his hair. – I will have to speak to all owners of the booking-offices and ask around among the cabmen themselves…"

"It is not something you have a chance to do, my friend, not by yourself. We need an adjunct".

"You suggest we go to a private detective?"

"No, – Professor responded earnestly, – that would be too dangerous. For him. We know what we are dealing with, but I can imagine a precious few people who would take warning such as this seriously".

"There's something more. This morning you mentioned that dogs become aggressive when a werewolf is around. And what about horses?"

"Everybody and their ant says that horses get restless in such a case, go out of control even of their usual coach, could bolt and run blind, as they wont to do in presence of a predator, their natural enemy, – Van Helsing said after a brief thoughtful pause. – But it does not go for London, apparently, since the shifter can go about as a cabman. It could mean, too, that he is under protection, his essence can't be perceived. Perhaps, some specific potion changing the smell… – the eyes behind round spectacle flashed brightly, and Professor suddenly bolted from his chair himself, towards a tall bookcase. – Where this book was, wait, I will find the relevant chapter right about now…"

"Professor, – Jonathan rose from his place himself, – when we first met him you said that these creatures did not dwell in the cities and someone could bring him here in London as a pet… or as a servant, perhaps?"

Van Helsing stopped his search and turned to his comrade. His eyes still burned and lips gradually formed a wide smile.

"You still think we'll need an assistant for this case?" – Jonathan inquired.

"Oh yes, – Van Helsing nodded. – And one of a very particular character, suited for extreme tasks".

***

The days that followed didn't bring about any important news. Professor Van Helsing, sticking to his promise, visited the British Museum to study the mummy and hadn't so far spotted any signs it was about to rise from its sacred sleep and voice its grievances about the conditions and handling.

Jonathan was busy looking for a suitable dwelling for a Transylvanian Count: Igor's assurances of his master being extremely careful, he yearned to get done with this business as soon as possible. Alongside this, he went on studying the reference books, searching for precedents and overall posing himself for the defence of Geoffrey Campbell's case. He visited the friend at his home twice, and Campbell came to his home straight away after he was released from custody – he appeared at Westwick Gardens together with Eliza, a truly charming girl of chestnut hair, feisty grey eyes and a splatter of freckles over her cutely pert nose. Mrs Turner served them a tea with lovingly created biscuits, strictly sticking to an ancient family recipe, the guests passionately thanked her for her trouble, lamented the need to delay the wedding due to the sad circumstances and left, rendering Jonathan melancholic and pensive. 

Amidst all this razzamatazz, Jonathan completely forgot about Van Helsing's plans to hire an aide, and it never crossed his mind until Tuesday's night. Mrs Turner was down with a flu and professor, having drawn a prescription and the schedule of taking the medicines, to a finest detail, took it upon himself to give Annie all the needed instructions and then personally serve the companion with a supper, arranging for it to take place in a small corner dinner area on the first floor.

"I would like you to see this, – Van Helsing proffered the latest edition of "The Times". – Remember, we reached a consensus on the need to enlisting a particular type of help?"

"A life-threatening job", – Jonathan read out loud the heading and graced the professor with a perplexed look. The other man smiled, encouraging the young lawyer to read on. "For a private business, an assistant is wanted, to go on discreet missions. The interview times are strictly 6 to 7 p.m., at following address…" Why, you put our own address up there! Wait… Ask for Joe Anderson. Who the heck is that?"

"Your humble servant, – Van Helsing grinned. – I warned our dearest landlady already, God, and modern medicine, help her recover fast". 

"I bet she did not like the idea".

"Should you really bet on it, you would most certainly win. But as long as we never fail to pay the rent and compensate Mrs Turner all the damage some of our clients might incur…"

"Discreet missions!" – Jonathan interjected, putting away the paper. – "A life-threatening job!" Don't you think it's a bit… excessive? Just who will go to our door after an advertisement such as this?" He was really puzzled with professor's words and deeds at times.

"Our work does involve a considerable amount of hardship and danger", – Van Helsing remarked softly, rising from the desk and coming up to the window. There were several ceramic pots arranged on the sill. They contained Mrs Turner's beloved geraniums. All but lost among the beautiful flowers, there was hiding other kind of plants – thin long stalks, round head, small white florets… Van Helsing, lost in thought, touched the blooms. "Some tasks may well prove horrible to bear in terms of consequences for a gentleman's honour and good conscience". 

"I see, Professor, – Jonathan bowed his head… and suddenly froze. – Did you hear? This sound again… I seemed to hear it this past night, too…"

Van Helsing strained his ears and shook his head decisively. "I don't hear anything out of the ordinary. You must simply be tired, with all the responsibilities you loaded yourself with lately. I'll better prescribe you some soothing drops for a good sleep".

"Thank you, – Jonathan tried his best to suppress a smile. – You are most probably right, it's all down to overwork. So, how many responses have there been?"

"Three. None of them successful, though".

"Oh."

"Imagine this. – Van Helsing came back to the table to gather the plates. – Two I found unsuitable out of the gate, and the third didn't win the trust of Mrs Turner. She said he reminded her of her distant nephew from Newcastle who was capable of selling his own soul, and that of his mother, should there come an interested buyer".

"What became of him, then?" – Jonathan inquired curiously, putting the bread and butter jug back into the cupboard. 

"He didn't end well".

As if drawing a line under the wretched man's story, the doorbell rang.

"Would you please open, my friend, if it is not too much of a trouble?" – Van Helsing asked.

It was the time on the brink of eve: the twilight intensified, shrouding the things and people in a bluish mist, whereas lanterns hadn't lit up yet. Snow melted in the air and hit the ground as a rain. As for last night's white grandeur, only a few spots of small half-melted islands somehow still reminded of it. 

Jonathan could swear there was no one at the door when he opened it.

"Who's there?" – the professor raised his voice from the depths of the room.

"No one, it appears", – and then, turning back to the door, Jonathan came with the visitor nose-to-nose. Metaphorically speaking.

"I came by appointment", – the voice rustled from behind a black mask which covered the entire face of the visitor.

"Do come in", – Jonathan took from the stranger his hat and overcoat, which turned out to be completely dry, the weather notwithstanding. Then again, he learned to be surprised at nothing: the practice showed that what looked impossible at first sight became much more probable at the second, whilst at the third it could well demand the bold actions. And when you looked for the fourth time, it might already be writing you a cheque for services rendered. 

The candidate – a tall, very skinny man (looking a bit like a coat hanger for his own clothes) – entered, walking in a strange unfocused manner. 

"It's by appointment", – Jonathan appeared from behind his back. Van Helsing nodded, gave a hospitable smile and offered the stranger a chair.

He used the very edge of it. – "Are you Joe Anderson?"

"In a manner or speaking. And you are…?"

"What kind of missions are we talking about?" – the guest let the latest question pass. His back looked unnaturally straight and he spoke with a thick French accent. Just in case, Jonathan tensed for a defence, should the need arise.

"Of a very wide variety, – Van Helsing replied. One could think he was amused by this conversation. One might well be right. – How long have you been in London?"

"A while. I might stay longer. If I find your offer worth accepting".

"For the start, – Jonathan interjected, getting a sense that the exchange of pleasantries could become protracted, – who are you, and do you have any references?"

The stranger threw his head back and burst into laughter – the sound which made Jonathan's skin crawl. Stopping abruptly, he fished out a crumpled envelope with an almost imperceptible flicker of a hand.

"Even when it comes to "discreet missions", – he said, going through the contents of the envelope with his thin, long fingers of a musician, – one had better keep about oneself a couple or two of reference letters, just in case". There was a mocking, or perhaps, sarcastic inflection to his voice. "And doubly so in case of life-threatening jobs. Well… – he sorted away some old, time-wizened sheets of papers and put them back to his pocket, – this would not be needed. But this, – he handed the envelope to Van Helsing, – I believe to be fascinating enough".

Jonathan looked over Professor's shoulder and saw several newspaper articles, cut out from English and French editions. The uppermost came from the evening Standard, dated by the 21st of May: "A horrible fatal accident took place in the Grand Opera yesterday. A multi-tonne chandelier crashed down on the stalls. One woman died". The rest of the headlines matched the first in impression. "A rising opera star disappears from the stage during a performance". "Mysterious death in the theatre's basements". "Two thousand francs get stolen, the police are at a loss". Etc., etc. 

"Nice, – the Professor summed up, putting the cutouts away. – Now it's clear to me that you are a serious and determined kind of person. Suits us fine. I am willing to take you on a probation". 

"Professor!", – Jonathan interjected quietly. Their visitor shuddered, and ripples went down his mask.

"I am sorry, sir, – Van Helsing turned to him, – for this little misunderstanding. Joe Anderson is but my alias. My name is Abraham Van Helsing, I am an Amsterdam University professor, a honorary member of British Sciences Academy, pro…"

"A professor", – the stranger broke in, moving towards him. Van Helsing didn't budge, just put his right hand on his knee. – Having been putting people through scientific tests, Monseur? Getting into their heads?" The visitor slowly rose from his chair, hovering over the table. His eyes in behind the cloth flashed with a sinister yellow flame. "Or do you collect various freaks, leaving their mothers' wombs in defiance of any laws of nature?" – his voice dripped with acid irony.

"Sit down, – Van Helsing voice sounded friendly, but there were an iron underlay to his tone, which made their guest to back down a little. – I give you my word as a physician and a gentleman, that I have never used living people as guinea pigs, nor have I ever put anyone to death in order to subsequently have them vivisected. My current goals are as far from the medical field, as there can be".

The stranger stepped back. Jonathan caught van Helsing's glance. The professor wordlessly pointed at the cupboard where Mrs Turner kept her house wines.

"I would rather keep my mask on, – the guest shook his head, declining the drink. – You see, members of the humankind invariably came to regret seeing my face. Provided they survived the experience".

"So, – Van Helsing smiled encouragingly, – if you haven't thought of any objections yet, kind sir, I would set a time trial for you before offering you the job on permanent basis".

"At your service, – the visitor replied politely, as if the recent outburst of anger never happened. – When you need me, telegraph to the main post office. Address it to Eric".

He rose in a flash again, this time to bow and rush out of the room. Jonathan made it to the dinner hall's doors before the front one banged, shutting. 

"But he's completely out of his mind!", – the young man snapped sharply.

Van Helsing took a pistol out of his pocket and put it on the table.

"I can't explain you this feeling, my friend, – his eyes got wistful. – Call it mercy or a gut feeling, if you wish, but my inner voice told me: Abraham, you should help this miserable lost soul".

Jonathan shook his head but didn't argue any further.

"But you are right, – Van Helsing went on, – when we have a chance, it would do well to get him to meet our mutual friend Dr Seward. Such a curious symptoms!" 

"Oh, very curious! – the assistant responded acerbically. – His track record must be even more so: I could bet it consists of something matching at least half of the clauses comprising the Criminal Justice Law". He picked up the envelope of "references" the guest left on the table. "I'd rather pay a visit to the Inspector Lewis. And should he suggest I go to Hell, I will go on to Sergeant Stephens, who owes me a favour or two. We also could contact the Paris Police to make some inquiries about our applicant".

"I too have several useful acquaintances in France, – the Professor said. – If the prospective employee cares not about the law, we better find out in advance exactly to what degree does he not care".


	5. Irene pays calls

Irene did not like to be first, nor the last, to appear at Lady Maude's salon. Both cases meant she would be the focus of countless discerning eyes and, most likely, the subject of much talk afterwards behind her back. She was not afraid of idle talks, but didn't consider it within the boundaries of good manners to become the hot topic of a gossip, especially at this time of her life. Even in the past, when she was much younger and considerably more reckless, she realised that one can get accustomed to this, can learn let meaningful whisper pass over your head, ignoring hints and glances, and it was even possible to grow a platinum-hard armour against the cruellest of words, but enjoying the badmouthing was inconceivable. That's why she always did her best to arrive to the house opposite Hyde Park by the time some guests had gathered already. Mostly, it was old friends and frequenters, sincerely loyal to the lady of the house.

Lady Maude herself, a sprightly skinny old woman, buckled, with a stiff-straight back, was at the tea table, from where she managed the overall talk with the confidence of a general leading the attack. She chose two classic topics to start: for the circle of Lord Havisham, there was perpetual weather discussion, whereas for the younger guests it was ruled appropriate to speak about the new theatre season at Old Vic. To wit: Lady Maude applied the definition "young" to anyone who wasn't yet past their thirties.

For those who preferred to refrain from the conversation for the moment, or who found it too much to make a choice, or tried to gather their courage to venture their own interjection, there were art reproductions browse.

The young Transylvanian Count found Irene looking at works by Constable and Turner. This time he was dressed in a way more customable in the English whereabouts. Pulling his trousers elegantly, he sat on the edge of the sofa, touched a page with his little finger and said: "This English landscapes are pure charm". 

"I'm afraid they seem dull on the pictures", – Irene smiled.

"You think? – The Count tilted his head, appreciating artfully detailed cart loaded with hay. – No, they possess of a special lure our woods and mountains are devoid of". He sighed and changed the subject. "I did hope to meet you again after our mutual introduction at Lady Ascot's. I was told you are fond of walks, I went for a walk in Hyde Park, even caught a small cold!"

"In Hyde Park? At such a weather? – Irene gasped with mock horror. – You poor thing". 

"Oh, I have got some pity from you already, – Aurel lowered his eyes modestly, but they were still cunning under those eyelashes. – It's a sure sign: we will soon become friends".

"You are overconfident, more than reason", – Irene remarked in a drier tone than a friendly chat would allow for.

"I have upset you, – even the sadness in him seemed pretty. – I am willing to redeem myself. Say, tomorrow? They have Traviata on that date and I reserved a box".

"I am afraid it is not exactly… appropriate", – Irene chose her words carefully and stole a look around. Count was speaking in hushed tones, but with enough motivation – and there was plenty of that around in this circles – anyone could hear him. 

"Why so? Oh, I understand… You loathe the overbearing interest from the crowd. We are alike in that – I too prefer solitude from time to time. What about a supper, then? My servant, I brought him over from Transylvania, is a marvel of a cook. No one will disturb us at my apartment".

"Alas", – Irene looked him in the eye rather meaningfully. What was the main drive behind his offer: young naivete, cluelessness of a foreigner or a plain simple insolence? "In London, you have put up with a lot of conventionalities. Men can get away with boldness, but women have to protect their reputations and stay away from the talk like this". She sincerely hoped the Count would get her meaning.

"Do be kind enough to forgive me, please, – Count smiled enchantingly. – I am not that well-verset in the local custom. So, salon will not do, then? True, strange eyes and ears would be inescapable there as well. Where such talks are allowed, then? Perhaps… in a bathroom?"

Irene decided not to believe her ears and, scared of treading this path any further, wrote it all down to some kind of a language barrier – after all, English was not the first tongue of the Transylvanian visitor. She rose, nodded curtly, letting him know that the conversation was over, and sat nearer to Lord Havisham, who immediately asked her to testify to the sad truth of English weather getting progressively worse.

Professor Van Helsing advised her to stay away from the Count, and, having given it some thought, she decided to take the friendly advice. Following the ball at Lady Ascot's, she only visited when and where it was necessary to keep up appearances, and avoided the houses where the young nosferatu might turn up. Upon learning – through indirect sources – that he was an ardent theatre-goer, she declined several invitations, including one to her beloved Covent Garden. She went for the deep recesses of libraries instead. Van Helsing himself sent her several books, and it took some while to study them – she even wrote some data down in her diary. It appeared, she by now knew much better what she was dealing with.

And here you are – she met the nosferatu at the Lady Maude's reception! Her first – and quite understandable – urge was to cross herself. And then she was rather astonished to realise that the Count seems to have some designs on her – why otherwise would he start getting her involved in the conversations publicly? If only it was normal in his parts, which didn't look very probable.

I wonder, she pondered, while nodding sympathetically to Mrs Walsh who, on the mark of Lady Maude, set about telling some didactic tale, how does he view me? She read somewhere that vampires enjoy playing with their victims, the same way as cat occasionally plays with a mouse – but Count didn't strike her as someone in a hunting mode. It was looking more like he was flirting – rather directly, mind, but quite engagingly, at that. It was strange and a little worrying. Though, Irene sighed inwardly, it was not immediately clear, what posed a bigger threat, the nosferatu himself or the gossip mill, poised for action already. Even these few words they had just exchanged, would provide enough fuel. The ladies of the society, immersed in the glamorous talk, never missed a thing.

Suddenly, the talk was hobbled. It didn't take long for the cause to become clear: one more visitor had arrived. From where she sat – between Lord Havisham and Colonel Pearce – Irene couldn't immediately identify the newcomer, but neither could she help noticing that the Count rushed towards the mysterious visitor enthusiastically. Strangely, her heart skipped a bit rather unpleasantly… but it couldn't be jealousy, could it? Two flutters of her fan later she recognised the one who got her new acquaintance so carried away, and inwardly conceded a defeat. Bowing respectfully over Lady Maude's hand was Mr Dorian Gray.

"You are late, good sir", – Lady Maude observed.

"Punctuality, my dear lady, is dangerous – it is much too time-consuming!" – Gray replied.

They were introduced once, he and Irene, though for the life of her she couldn't remember, by whom exactly. Mr Dorian Gray inherited a huge fortune, which allowed him to fully indulge in his passion for fine arts. This worship of his sometimes took unusual shapes – it was rumoured, for instance, that he bought out all the paintings, and then even sketches, by one London artist, only to donate them to an art gallery. And this was not the only action by Mr Gray notable for its eccentricity. The plume of the most incredible gossip and speculation followed wherever he went. 

Then again, the beauty always draws everybody's attention and fuels the rumours – and beautiful Dorian Gray was, no two ways about it. No one could tell his exact age, but in the high society circles some ladies and gentlemen insisted they had known him for not less than 20 years, which meant this man was at the very least 40 years of age. In this case, the time was more than just kind to him: it looked like it didn't dare touch his face at all. Fresh clean skin, a graceful wave of blond hair, haughty set of mouth, as if chiselled by the best of sculptors, perfect outline of brow, marvellously moulded nose – all in full harmony – such faces are one in a million. His looks just begged to become a painter's model. Mr Gray, however, invariably declined any such proposals. He never posed for a drawing, he strictly forbade taking photographs and, as far as she knew, he even hated mirrors.

He was arrogant in manners, too; while not being of a conspicuous height, he somehow managed to look down at everybody – or at least, such was the impression of everybody he ever talked to. But one thing was for sure: wherever he went, he became an instant focus of burning interest. Whatever he said, instantly went around, repeated by all and sundry. 

Irene was not an exception in this particular regard: she was vividly interested in him as well. It was impossible to pass him without looking back – so sharp was the aura of mystery surrounding him.

To keep him in her view, Irene moved closer to Lady Maude.

"It was quite a chore to get my hands on him, – she pointed out, proffering a cup of tea, and explained, noting Irene's surprise. – He speaks amusingly. Disgusting things, yes, but in the most eloquent way – you can't help but admire the elegance he expresses them with. May the youngsters have their fun, while we, the elders, can watch them. It's all we have left".

"Why, what about giving sage advice?" – Irene objected.

"Ah, darling, when we are young, we never go by older people's advice, and then, once old ourselves, we love nothing more than preach to everyone and their ant. See, this is Mr Gray's wisdom as well".

Irene wordlessly sipped her tea.

Meanwhile, Mr Gray was already surrounded by those craving to hear his originalities. 

"Well, my dear, – lady Maude said. – We, in turn, can talk about the upcoming Christmas recital".

"I beg you pardon?" – Irene, watching with a certain interest how her recent Transylvanian worshipper was defecting into the enemy's ranks, didn't instantly realise that the old lady was speaking to her. 

"Our Christmas recital, – lady Maude repeated patiently. – I have an annual Christmas ball here, and there we always have a musical recital, paired with charity auction. The proceedings go to orphanages".

"Ah, I remember, – Irene nodded. – in winter two years ago in London I…"

"Wonderful!" – lady Maude exclaimed, thus drawing attention of Mr Gray. He turned to her smoothly and inquired in a soft pleasant voice: "What do you find so wonderful, my lady? Pray do not tell me you meant London's winter!"

"But of course not, – lady Maude shook her head, gracing him with a maternal smile. – It is horrible for my arthritis. I am just delighted that Miss Adler contented to join our little circle". And the little old lady gave Irene such a conspiratorial wink that Miss Adler felt a little uncomfortable. – "Miss Adler will perform at the concert!"

"How nice, – Gray raised an eyebrow. – Does Miss Adler like Christmases, or perhaps, she is fond of orphans who are bound to be rewarded handsomely?" 

"It is the custom of our society that we must be fond of both", – Irene had to draw in all her stage skills. There was nothing else to do – lady Maude didn't leave her any other choice than to support the idea. Oh, how Irene would love to do some harm to her hairdo, if only this was the custom of their society. 

"So, you will perform then", – Mr Gray came up to Irene and she realised that, against her own volition, her eyes were glued to him. There was always an adventurous side to her; men with a mystery about them, maybe even some whiff of danger, held a special kind of attraction to her. This little vice she afforded herself in the past. But could she do the same now?

"I shall sing", – for a moment their eyes met and Irene was surprised by the coldness in his eyes, despite the most pleasant smile on his face. 

"I am given to understand that you sang at La Scala once, – Gray was politeness itself. – Had you become disappointed in opera?"

"On the contrary, I left the theatre to avoid this outcome, – Irene replied. – And you, Mr Gray, do you not think about participating?"

"Thank God, we, men, are not socially obliged to be fond of orphans".

"I heard, – Aurel interjected, – that you, sir, played piano beautifully once".

"It was a long time ago", – Gray answered levelly, but his glance at the Count, Irene observed, was rather far from idly curious. Just for a split second, a true interest flashed in Gray's eyes – but of what kind, she couldn't quite tell; maybe, even amorous. Her own curiosity was aroused and she vowed to herself, breaking her promise to avoid the Count at any costs, that she would find out Mr Gray's plans about the young visitor from Transylvania. Naturally, she would behave most sensibly and would never take lightly the danger posed by both of them, no way... 

"Did you fall out of love with music?" – she asked.

"I found myself a new objective, – Gray answered. – To know all the pleasures of life. Though I have got fed up with them by now and I am considering returning to the music".

"Then, perhaps, I could manage to talk you into accompanying me at the recital?" 

"I would think, Madame, you are of a soloist persuasion", – Gray's smile was so infectious, Irene couldn't help but respond in kind. 

"And you, sir, – she turned to the Count, – how about taking your own part?"

"As a spectator, certainly, – the youth replied. – This is my most successful role".

"It is most obvious that you are modest as well", – Gray remarked to him, and the Count's cheeks blushed a little.

And the conversation treaded along, revolving around most various themes and events; and fluffy snowflakes streaked past the window, informing the populace, better than any London telegraph could, of the nearing Christmas, only few weeks left.

* * *

Cab number 3011 moved through London, occasionally turning into narrow alleyways and barely fitting into spaces between brick walls, then diving back out to broad streets, dissolving in the buzzing streams of vehicles – past luxury shops, banks and theatres, past expensive mansions and enterprise ventures, past factories, small street-stands and music halls, through East End and West End. There could hardly be found a better way to inspect multi-faced London to detail than climbing onto a driving-box and take the hold of reigns. Besides, while the horse hoofed along, the coacher could remember and reminisce. 

This tall slim man, in his never-changing broad-rimmed hat, packed into his scarf to his eyes, barely glimmering behind the cloth, took to the mazes of streets and lanes like a fish to a water, having even the locals well-surprised. How a foreigner, and a recent newcomer, at that, could so quickly get to feel at home in this labyrinth, they wondered. He usually replied that he was ever fond of labyrinths, so they were indeed like a home to him – and quietly smiled to himself under his scarf.

"Dorset Lane!" – another address boomed into his ears. The coacher waited until the gentleman in a warm winter coat settled down in the carriage and took the reigns again.

It proved not that difficult to get a job. The owner of the coach yard did not waste time: it took him a few words to set out the guidelines for a new guy, and he was not the one to ask excessive questions. In a few hours the new employee harnessed a chestnut horse for the first time and went out to the streets of London.

The cab stopped at a crossroads, and a fellow coacher, driving a Hansom's equipage gave a salutatory wave. 

Oh to mingle with people constantly, be considerate with the passengers (excessive recklessness or insufficient politeness could land you in hot with the police), chat with other cabmen at the exchange point or at a casual encounter in the streets! Lilts were not paid much heed in this huge city – all kinds of dialects mixed here, God knows from where – nor was the thick cloth over a face: this was the time of year when everybody did their best to hide from cold and wind. Eric, once Phantom of the Paris Opera, proved a quick learner and soon was a deft hand in small talk, while waiting for a client, and keen attention to the latest gossip (be that a wayward wife of a butcher or the fresh horrible crime shouted around by the paper boy). Speak. Listen. Bear in mind. That was what the first task for the trial period went down to.

An aged gentleman paid up and alighted, but less than in a five minute there was another call, from a pair that wanted a ride to Albert Hall, and Eric jumped down to open the door for them. 

Professor Van Helsing needed to keep abreast of the last months' goings-on, and the ex-Phantom of the Opera became his eyes and ears in the rent carriages' office, the very same where the late John Dobbs had worked for nearly four years. The employer enlightened Eric about the police verdict: they wrote the poor man down as a robbery victim, which was, in fact, probable enough. There was a substantial amount of paupers, desperados and madmen in London, and any of them could prove ready – and willing – to kill for a couple of shillings. Why, there were two attempts on Eric's own purse. 

But… four deaths in two months! Alright, they only found one body, but there wasn't any doubt in Phantom of the Opera's mind that the rest of the missing were beyond the mortal coil as well. They were all cabmen, and all their carriages were discovered empty at the outskirts of London. The eyewitnesses' accounts did not match and didn't sound very convincing to the most. The police tended to swat away any talks about a humongous hairy thing which was not quite identifiable – perhaps a wolf, perhaps a wild dog – and possessed of burning eyes, incredible mastery of leaping over the highest obstacles, and, to round it all up, according to some, the power of taking a human form. They had their hands full enough with your regular non-otherworldly criminals.

And that's why cab number 3011 constantly moved around the areas where a customer was not easily findable – it was not a clientele the cabman was after. Wherever the beast was said to appear, be that an attack or a mere sighting, next came a strange man of a thick French accent who kept his face tightly under wraps – and went about meticulously inspecting every inch of the ground and walls. Twice he was very close. First time it happened when he gave a ride to an intensely foul-mouthed Scot – alas, the latter was not in the mood to discuss his accident with a lowly cabman, but Eric, just in case, got the passenger and the address he delivered him to, remembered by heart. Then, while passing along the Swandham Lane, he heard a horrified scream. He drove empty at the time, so, without hesitation, he turned to the source of the sound and rushed the horse. A middle-aged woman with a big bucket, having finished her grocery shopping, appeared to have escaped with her life and, more or less, good health. Having waited for a constable, Eric answered a few questions and left the scene, compiling the report for Professor Van Helsing in his mind.

A turn. Another one. Well, here we are. The passengers left and the cabman was given to the mercy of the boredom, waiting for the next call and regretting the impossibility to leave, too, and pay a visit to a recently-opened neighbouring cafe. He hadn't had a meal since breakfast and the nature called like heck. Street traders came to the rescue. Coming into possession of a mince pie and several crumpled apples, Eric decided to treat his four-legged assistant first.

There were the days when he spent a considerable amount of time in the company of these noble beasts and despite the following separation, he had not forgotten, neither lost his skills of handing them. The chestnut mare he was allocated proved obedient, undemanding, viewed the world in a rather philosophic manner and was well-gifted linguistically (the latter he came to know first-hand, having occasionally chatted with her in his native tongue). The chestnut thing listened with attention and from time to time gave a reserved grunt of a comment. They had a good, thorough understanding, and Eric started to consider buying his four-legged comrade out of service, once he'd be done and get paid. It seemed a strange idea when first occurring to him, but the more thought he gave it the more attractive the option looked.

Ah, here comes another passenger.

"City!" – he directed, and Eric, wiping his hands, settled in the driving-box.

When he had no work to do, he often just wandered the streets of London, comparing it zealously to Paris. The latter always won. Alas, the latter also threw him out.

It was dark already when the ex-Phantom disgorged the last customer near a small ancient church. Having flung the coins up a bit, he pocketed them and jingled a little, in contemplation. The day was turning out a good one – the passengers didn't come in short supply and neither did the fees. The other employers, Professor Van Helsing, paid no less handsomely, but Eric had to put the detective work on hold this time. Then again, he didn't miss much: this day passed with no beastly attacks.

Sensibly coming to the conclusion that the last passenger certainly would need a lift back from the church – and if not him, then somebody else would, for sure – Eric decided on standing by. The darkness thickened, recently fallen snow twinkled under the clear starry skies, a gas lamp glowed nearby, its warm light filtering through the church's painted-glassed windows. They played organ there, and a stern, solemn cantus as if invited the passers-by to pause, listen and enter the temple.

Feeling a little jealous, Eric moved his cab closer to the lantern, climbed up and took out London's map. The A to Z layout was peppered with pencil marks, signifying the locations of beast sightings. He noted the similar map – only of much bigger scale – on the wall at Professor Helsing's quarters. The latter too, together with his assistant, made marks, trying to find a pattern in the monster's activities.

The Phantom of the Opera kept his own records, crossing the scenes of attacks in black and the mere sightings in blue (that was where the predator appeared, but the witnesses lived mostly unharmed to tell the tale). The hardest part was to sort the true stories from the fib and error. Whatever went wrong anywhere, any misdeed, any perpetration, the blame tended to go the way of the mysterious animal, on the – rather reasonable – supposition that it was unlikely to come protesting its innocence any time soon.

East End Docks, in fact, was the kind of place such a being would revel in. The realm of horrifying poverty, the place where life came cheap and the last resting place tended to be the Thames' bottom. But there was an even more intriguing part of London, from where awful news didn't arrive, because they were kept behind the locked doors, through which only a vague rumour occasionally swirled out. Van Helsing instructed him to be especially alert to this kind of thing – complaints about a sudden mad barking of dogs renowned for their virtually aristocratic manners, agitated tale of a housemaid at one of the richest houses in the city, scared nearly to death by some apparition, and so forth. 

The organist blundered and Eric winced in pain. True enough, there was no chance to expect extraordinary skills from a local player, in such a small church, even if the district was of high standing. The former Phantom of the Opera caught himself itching to enter, point out and make corrections – and it proved a chore to fight off the urge.

He jumped off the coach, came closer to the fence, strained his ears and tried to picture the organist: for sure, he was young, diligent but inexperienced, and so he made mistakes – not major ones, for everyone to notice, but obvious enough for the phenomenal hearing of the masked man. 

While he silently accounted for errors in performance and singled out the possible roots – perhaps, he would drop in after all, and, when a spare time arose, even have a hand in perfecting the boy's mastery – a clear female voice entered the cantus, and Eric froze, as if stricken by a thunderbolt. This voice was not merely strong and beautiful – there were years of daily labour, unheard-of commitment and genuine talent behind it all. He couldn't be wrong here: it was an opera diva singing there.

He made two more steps, stopped again and leaned his back on the fence, immersing himself in listening. It was not a voice of a young girl, pure and transparent as that of angel's, but a woman's voice, one of a queen, of a ruler. The memory immediately supplied about half a dozen names, but no singer he knew could fill their sound with such a treasure trove of nuances. Not one, except… oh yes! Many years ago, before he moved to Paris, long before the triggering of the tragic chain of events which turned once-master of the Opera House into its exile, in the birth place of this wonderful art, to the magic chords of Verdi, he heard this very voice singing.

The singer stopped and Eric, not without some effort shaking off his reverie of memories, briskly went back to the cab.

It took about ten minutes more before two appeared out of the gates: an elderly man of short height, supported his companion by the arm. The lady was cocooned in a fur coat. She had thick leather folder of printed music in her hands, and her face was indiscernible from where Eric looked. The gentleman called him over and waved a beckoning hand. 

"My dear Miss Adler, you just ought to consider returning to the stage! – he enthused, giving a valedictory bow, while she already settled in the cab. – You commit a sheer crime by hiding such a talent from the audiences!"

"No, my dear Mr Edgeworth, – she shook her head. – I am sincerely flattered by your praises, but I am well aware of my true current level: I lost too much time and it would took too much labour to catch up, should I even have a burning desire to do so, and that I have not". She shook her head again. "No, I like my life as it is much better".

"Then those who will hear you on Christmas are truly fortunate. See you at the next rehearsal, Miss Adler".

"On Thursday, Mr Edgeworth". 

She leaned back on her chair and her indifferently polite glance passed over the driver. 

"The Brown Hotel, please", – she said.

* * *

"Where are you heading now, Jonathan?" – the Professor pulled on his gloves having his cane tightly under his arm.

"Much as I would prefer to use this time for more important things, I will have to visit some more mansions of those I have to choose among looking for a staying place for our Transylvanian guest", – the young man replied. They came down the doorsteps and Jonathan held the door for the Professor.

"So his grace hasn't yet made his final choice?"

"He's awfully fractious. One time it is in a wrong place, another, the colour of the facade doesn't suit him, or the treills-work is of a wrong shape, and then there is the matter of how much gore the building's history can boast. I must admit, his predecessor was much less of a headache as far as property was concerned".

Van Helsing snorted and slapped his partner's shoulder with a degree of sympathy. 

"Be brave, my friend. Find some heart in the thought that my colleagues from the Natural History Museum would happily put their very souls in pledge only to have a chance of such a close association with the other sentient kind of life". 

"They would be in for one heck of disappointment, – Jonathan declared acidly. – Well, of course, unless they are all that keen about the latest society gossip and fashion trends in Strand". 

There was not much of a traffic in Westwick Gardens Street that early in the morning, yet the moment Jonathan raised a hand, a cab materialised in front of him as if out of the blue. 

"And you, Professor, what is your immediate route?"

"I must report to Lord Hamilton about the work done so far, – Van Helsing climbed into the cab. – Will you join me?"

"I'll better walk to the underground", – Jonathan shook his head. Van Helsing touched his hat brim, bidding the partner goodbye, and gave the coachman the British Museum address.

The cab turned the corner and quickly fitted into the traffic. The weather relented, and Professor couldn't help but marvel at the sight of London. Some homes and shop displays bore the signs of early Christmas preparations, and the policemen solemnly posed to the audience against the backdrop of decorations. Your regular London morning, it was, and it didn't even occur to the estimable populace what kind of a true face emerged once the night fell and the masks went off in the city. 

The carriage slowed: two omnibuses at the crossroads were busy trying to disentangle their routes. Clumsy as some big wheeled leviathans, they became the focus of a small commotion of equipages and street gapers. A true-blue rapscallion type flickered among the crowd and Van Helsing smiled to himself: it looked very much like a couple of passers-by soon would find themselves a wallet, watch or cigar case short – or devoid of all of them at once.

The cab rocket, moved into a mews by the driver, to navigate around the jam. Less than in a quarter of an hour they stopped beside the Museum, and Van Helsing jumped off with an ease of 20-year-old. 

"A fine weather, is it not, sir? – he heard the muffled voice of the cabman. – So very… English".

"Yes", – Van Helsing absent-mindedly went around his pockets to get money for the change. His attention was distracted by a sophisticated coach stopped in some distance. Next moment, Lord Darnham offered his hand to support two ladies in a row, alighting from the coach. The first one, with a horse-like face, was a stranger to the Professor, but the second… A fashionable coat clung to the neat figure, fitting like a glove, and smile lit up her face once and again. It was clear as light of day that Irene Adler – unlike her fellow lady traveller – enjoyed the sun. As well, it seemed, she wasn't at all unhappy with the Lord Darnham's company. 

Van Helsing put several shillings in the coachman's open hand and the latter put them into his pocket without counting. His face, almost completely wrapped in a scarf, was turned to the newcomers, too, eyes burning a strange yellow, French speak coming from under the scarf.. 

"Pardon?" – Van Helsing thought the cabman was talking to him.

"I said, this woman positively stalks me, – the cabman replied and added amusedly, – come on, Mr "Anderson", can it be that my fancy costume fooled you?" He chuckled and winked.

"Eric? – Professor was indeed surprised. – Oh yes, you are at work now, of course".

"Yes, sirrr", – the former Phantom of the Opera put on an additional layer of French trill. 

"Hello, Professor!" – Lord Darnham waved his hand in greet and told something to his companions. 

"I will be around, – Eric said. – When will do you need a lift back?"

"Truly, I am at a loss. Two hours will more likely be enough to get it all sorted for the day".

Eric patted his horse's face and notted.

"So, are you acquainted with Miss Adler?" – Van Helsing asked.

"The hell I am", – Eric snarled and hurried back to the driving-box.

Shortly the introductions were made between Professor Van Helsing and the precious spouse of Lord Darnham, and then the whole party made way towards the Museum. 

Lord Darnham expressed his sheer delight to meet the Professor, informed the latter about his long-standing plans to show his wife the treasure of the British crown, and so on, and so forth. Lady Darnham graced the company with a sour smile, whilst Miss Adler followed the pair looking like she had no care in the world. 

Van Helsing slackened his pace to fall in line with Irene and offered a hand.

"I'm so very glad, Professor, – she said quietly. – I confess, I agreed for this museum tour only in the hopes of meeting you. Lord Darnham mentioned you were working on some puzzle and to find you in the repositories at this time of day was practically a certainty".

"Yes, dear lady, your humble servant had gone into the business of Egyptology, – Van Helsing smiled. – I see, you know the Lord?"

"Not exactly with him, not that much, – Irene replied. – Now, Lady Darnham I used to know rather well, once. So I refreshed my connections, and recently came up with an idea to walk the halls of the Museum". 

At the entrance, they were welcomed by the head of Egypt Research Fund in person. Behind him, in the depth of the nearest chamber, one could discern the contours of stony sarcophaguses, the statues of gods and a huge head of the likeness of Amenhotep. Van Helsing shook his head adversely, answering the silent question from the lord, which looked satisfied, not to say happy, with this reply. He even went as far as to show the ladies the most expensive exhibits, after which Lady Darnham, disenchanted with the unglamorous appearance of the crock and cuneiform tablets, expressed the wish to view some Greek amphora. The expression on the face of Lord Darnham as he led his wife away, defied any description. 

"Miss Adler, – Van Helsing imparted to Lord Hamilton, – has been interesting in archaeology for years. But she is not after its glamorous facade, firmly fitted on a stand and covered with a glass, but, so to speak, after its original roots".

Miss Adler was notably surprised to hear that, but it didn't stop her from nodding and putting on her charm offensive smile. 

Lord Hamilton didn't hesitate to invite her into the very shrine of the Museum: the secret warehouses where only the chosen were allowed to tread. Irene stole a moment to squeeze Van Helsing's hand as they were led down the flight of steps.

A bleak spacious premise seemed to consist entirely of the cases, boxes, shelves and containers, all loaded with assortment of variegated archaeological finds. 

The Pharaoh Jemmurabi – or, to be precise, his mummy – graced the table in all his glory, bandages off, and drew the eye like a magnet .Not that he was of a formidable size – on the contrary, he was quite short of height even when alive, and posthumously, dried up and disembowelled, he looked small as a child. Whatever was left of his face was set in a contemptuous expression, his chin haughtily up, hands, with wizened fingers, folded across the chest. To hide her disgust, Irene made a show of being fully immersed in examining the sarcophagus' cover positioned close to the table. This cover, as well as the sides of the coffin, still bore some remnants of the ornament depicting, most likely, the Pharaoh's route in his afterlife, complete with his ultimate fate. Van Helsing, meanwhile, conversed with Lord Hamilton in halftones.

"So, – the lord concluded, taking paper-filled folder from the Professor and fingering the sheets' edges, – you have indeed, beyond the reasonable doubt, established the impossibility…"

"Dear sir, – Van Helsing said kindly, – I made all the required analyses in all thoroughness. I can assure you, the most honourable Pharaoh has no chance to inhale air, enjoy his favourite meal or indulge his physical needs, ever again. He is as dead as a doornail, and has been for such a long time, it does not bear talking about".

Lord Hamilton's smile went wider with each spoken word, and by the end of the last phrase he positively beamed. 

"And, legally speaking?.." – he still wanted to be absolutely clear on the subject.

"Here are papers my assistant got in order for you. These documents outline several precedents and cite the clauses of law…"– before he had time to complete the sentence, Lord Hamilton snatched the whole sheaf from his hands and dashed towards Irene. Carefully taking some crock, apparently especially close to his heart, from her thin fingers, he put it back to the box, to share the company of fully identical looking ones in terms of shape, colour and size. 

"I would, – he said when Irene blushed and lowered her eyes, like a model pupil caught at burgling a marshmallow jar, – advise rather against touching the exhibits. The curse of crypts, my dear lady, – he added, seeing his visitor's embarrassment, – is not entirely scientific phenomenon, but one better not be recklessly dismissed, don't you agree, Professor?"

Van Helsing (who didn't waste time examining and probing the most interesting – in his view – of the crock while studying the mummy in private) earnestly nodded, stifling a smile.

To smooth over the awkward moment, Lord Hamilton suggested that Irene would take a first look at the items which would soon be displayed to the public at the Hall of Ancientries of Anterior Asia. Sotone panels from the palaces of Assyrian kings, Sumerian ritual artefacts, amazingly well-preserved cuneiform tablets, 22 centuries of age… It turned out, archaeological digs were an extremely complicated and difficult business. The earth didn't give up its treasures easily, and, once out, almost everything that was found required restoration – and that's not mentioning wracking one's head over what this or that item was meant for or the true sense of yet another inscription. 

The role of pride and joy of the upcoming exhibition was meant to go to a pure charm of a statuette, depicting a mountain goat. It was made of wood and gold-plated. The golden goat impressed Irene deeply, and all the breaches of tact perpetrated by Lord Hamilton were instantly forgiven. 

Upon getting back to the Egypt Hall Lord Hamilton found Lord Darnham, and both experts of Egypt, interrupting each other, went into an enthusiastic discussion of recently discovered papyruses which contained love letters between some votary and unidentified addressee. Lady Darnham held her husband firmly by the arm with a look of a holy martyr, while Van Helsing listened intently… only not to the improvised lecture, but what Irene was telling him.

"You see, Professor,… – she started, and immediately interrupted herself. – Dear God, I sound like all these English busybodies who can't survive a day without a fresh rumour…"

"Come, come, my dear Miss Adler, – Van Helsing patted her hand. – How do they put it in your American States? There is no hiding things from your doctor and your lawyer?" 

"True enough, – Irene sighed. – Remember, I expressed some reservations about our Transylvanian guest, and you recommended I stayed away from him?" Van Helsing nodded. – "Well, now he got me all worried again. Or rather, this time, I am worried about him. It seems to me, the Count is… a little taken by Mr Dorian Gray. You know this name, of course".

"Just cursorily, I'm afraid".

"Mr Gray's reputation… well, he is not welcome in certain homes. They say, once Mr Gray appeared in the club, Lord Edgeworth pointedly left the building…"

"I am not entirely well-versed in the high society etiquette, – Professor confessed. – But I can well imagine the widest variety of rumours circulated around these quarters, and there might even be some substance to some of them. So, our young… well, "young" isn't exactly a word you would easily apply to a nosferatu…"

Irene smiled suddenly. "It seems to me, he's quite young still. Perhaps, what with living so incredibly long, these creatures also take quite a while to grow up. The Count doesn't look to be any different from other young upstarts, if only his impertinence surpasses even theirs – but, being such a charmer, he gets away with everything. Forgive me, I digress. The Count obviously is mashed on Mr Gray, and, considering the latter's reputation, I fear…"

"…That it might end up in trouble, – Van Helsing complete her phrase for her. – I thank you, Miss Adler, – he said earnestly, – I will keep what you said in mind".

"Thank you, Professor, – Irene squeezed his hand briefly, and then spoke more lightly, even merrily. – Tell me, what tongue do they speak in Transylvania?"

"Far as I know, they use some patois of Roman".

"Do you speak it, too?"

"Alas, my lady, my acquaintance with Roman speak is rather distant. You require some translation, I understand? I could direct you to respected experts, I know several of such. One letter would be enough to…"

"Oh no, – Irene interjected hastily, – no need to bother honourable experts. I just wanted to find out… Could you tell me, do they have many adopted words?" 

"About the same amount as any other language could boast. Of course, they derived something from Latin, Greek also, and besides, Russian, French, German as well…"

"Perhaps… perhaps you might know… Is there a word in Roman which would sound like "bathroom" in English?"

Van Helsing raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"Afraid not… if only… wait a moment… – He rubbed the bridge of his nose. – Oh. Ferry. Yes, in fact, tit does have certain close consonances…"

Irene sighed. The Count couldn't mean that, could he… But if he did… Oh dear, what a quaint vampire!


	6. Confrontation

The last evening of the autumn was dank and clammy. The wind came from North-West, doing its best to get into people's collars and sleeves, the instantly melting snow – or was it a very piddling rain? – didn't show any intention to stop. This was exactly the kind of weather to make one prey to the sin of blight. 

A carriage zigzagged down the lanes of Whitechapel, one resembling another, invariably narrow, all of them. Endless row of homes flickered past – rain and twilight painted them grey and muddy, and it looked like that paint was still dribbling. Dorian Gray looked at his wristwatch, counted the time left until the hour of arranged meeting, hanged out of the window and ordered the cabman to speed up. The driver snapped his horsewhip, bringing it into direct contact with the steaming flanks. 

Dorian Gray still frequented here, in East End, just like in good old days. In his youth he strove to live life to the full, to try and test everything, himself included, drinking impressions and filling his days with diversity. That was then… and this was now: he no longer could tell what he was looking for among the despondent huts and dirty inhabitants, what was it he seemed to have lost. So as to get away from the bleak landscape, Gray shut his eyes tightly and started to silently recite Dante: "…Aiming to purify his soul by the worship of the beauty". Before he knew it, he dozed off, and, once becoming aware again, he saw the luxury neo-Gothic facade of Charing Gross swim past the window. Heavy leaden clouds shrouded the sky, and the rain got more persistent. Less than in half an hour Dorian arrived to his destination.

A shop owned by the Lockhead family for five generations was situated in Old Bond Street, squeezed between other rich antiquity stores. Anybody stepping in found themselves somewhere much akin to Forty Brigands' treasure cave: ancient books and paintings, polished mirrors, ornate sconces, statuettes and cassolettes, ladies' bric-a-brac and cutlery were overwhelming in amount and variety. All this was softly lit with the shine of oil lamps which produced glitter all around. It would not at all be a strain on the owner to arrange for a more modern kind of lighting, but that would mean interfere with the shop's specific and unique cosiness, and that was unthinkable in and of itself. The clientele of Mr Lockhead's shop were not just after something to buy, but – and that was what mattered the most – after the sheer sensation of the place. 

"Do come in, Mr Gray, over here", – the antiquity trader, a portly man with slightly greying moustache, opened the door, so well-fit, you would require a hawkeye to notice it was even there when shut. 

Dorian Gray gestured at the valet to stay outside and wait and followed the shop owner through the secret door, down the flight of stairs which led to the sacred altar of the most influential antiquity trader in London, Mr Jacob Lockhead. 

Collecting things was something that went under the tag of an innocent weakness of a gentlemanly kind, a hobby which might be expensive but very telling about the collector's character, be that pipes, great masters' paintings or riches of the empires who had lived through their Golden Age and degenerated BC. Those were of unimaginable value: after all, in this case, to the cost of materials and the level of craft, one had to add the stamp of time into the equation. And everyone who was anyone in the collectors' circles, sooner or later came to the door of Mr Lockhead's, the place owned by the latest heir of old antiquity-trading dynasty, the best specialist there was as far as archaeological halidom was concerned. He was respected and treasured not just for his exquisite knowledge – important, too, was his mastery of getting on good terms with anybody; even more so, his gift of finding and supplying things which, in addition to being wondrous as such, were unique and fully in keeping with the customer's feelings and needs.

A true expert in art would not need to look thrice to realise: there was nothing of particular value in the room the visitor had to enter first. Oh, you could acquire a still life painting of a considerable age there, or a silver tabatiere, or a nephrite hairpin to adorn some fair lady's comb-out – and then haste on, content with a nice buy. But there was a special rite for those who knew better and possessed of deeper pockets. To those, a tawny servant of fine features, opened the next door, bowing respectfully. 

There were only two of them in the shop: looking identical and dressed brightly, in Oriental way, which disguised them well among the surrounding treasures, the same way as picturesque feathers of paradise birds hides them in the recesses of tropical green and flowers. Quiet, dutiful, utterly loyal to Jacob Lockhead, they were always on hand for any task – be that serving of yet another exhibit hailing from the Valley of Kings or murdering anyone who would cross their master in any way. In the last ten years, the shop underwent only one robbery attempt. The intruders came to such a grisly end, no one ever tried it again.

This second room was hardly affordable for most of the populace, but even it did not contain the true trove of the business. A selected few were allowed into the third one, well-protected behind a concealed door, itself obscured from the prying eyes with a three-centuries-old tapestry. This chamber had only ever seen two persons enter it at once: the owner and a buyer.

It was not big, nor pretentious in scenery, and the available space was almost entirely taken up by two closed wardrobes and a table under a dark cloth. One of the wardrobes was allocated for the items reserved by trusted buyers; the other contained things the age, origin and purpose remained a mystery for the moment: these were in the pipe for evaluation. 

At times, Lockhead arranged a showroom for his personal menagerie of forgeries. Those, of course, were not just any forgeries, either, but only such that could be justly considered the work of art themselves, up there with the level of the originals. For example, there were several works of great artists of Renaissance era, a Chinese vase dating to 15th century (the maker wanted to pass it as something five centuries older, and did a good job of it), and, the jewel of the crown, a tiara of Scythian kings, which a dozen of experts certified as genuine artefact. Lockhead kept regular correspondence with the creator himself.

But at the moment, there was only one thing on the table: a round bronze chalice. Dragons were in the flight towards one another on its sides. Every scale covering the agile bodies had its particular shape; long barbs flapped; talons shone; frightening faces were contorted, but in a mock threat: slant eyes brimmed with amusement. The magic beasts did not mean to fight: whey were playing among the elements, in the maze of sprigs and flowers, torn off either by the wind or a foamy stream. The best of the latest Faberge's masterpieces paled next to the two thousand years of history manifested in the dragons' dance. 

If you turned the treasury over, you could discern several hieroglyphs – the master's seal: just a few opaque marks, a string of sounds alien to an English year, nothing more.

"It is glorious, – Dorian Gray lightly and tenderly touched the ornament with the tips of his fingers. – Why haven't you shown to me anything like this before?"

Jacob Lockhead, the antiquity trader, smiled: "Simply because I have never had anything like this in the stock. Nor does anyone in the entire country have anything remotely like this".

"This befits my needs, – Gray nodded. – Made of bronze, too. Not silver, not gold… but what a mastery of manufacture for such ancient a time! Is it famous by anything else?"

"Perhaps", – the shop owner came closer. He normally chose to stand behind a visitor and slightly to the side, letting the prospective buyer to admire yet another curiosity fully. He never interfered, never advertised the way small shop owners do – just answered the questions, and never missed the point where customers were no longer able to resist the urge to acquire this or that item. 

Gray's own collection would make even king's museum proud, and as far as value went, Jacob Lockhead himself would have his work cut out for him coming up with the correct price. Tastes of one of his best customers became somewhat of a professional challenge for the trader. There didn't seem to be a method to Dorian Gray's preferences, as if anything went, metal or stone, East or West, North or South, millennia-old items and nearly modern samples. But there was something in common about all of them, and that was their striking beauty. One could almost think Gray was afflicted by this time-defying exquisiteness. 

"It was brought from one lost temple in the middle of nowhere in China, where the single monk still served", – the trader picked the item and put it on the palm of his left hand, starting to resemble an ancient sculpture himself. His velvety tones were hushed, just enough to caught the listener's attention. "It was not a rich temple – actually, next to nothing but this chalice was worthy of look there. It is unknown how such a beautiful and valuable creation came to land in there, but the monk protected it with his life… not that it helped much. This exhibit will not disappoint any gatherer". 

"Disappointment is something not necessarily to be avoided at all costs, – Gray replied quietly. – It can prove useful. It saves your time and soul energy from being wasted on something not worth it".

"If you hold the chalice in your hands, you could feel warmth and cold at once, – Lockhead said. – And should you pour clear water into it, it will boil in a minute, but the metal won't heat up".

"Really?"

"Do you wish to try?"

Gray shook his head, declining the experience. 

"The most fascinating sight, to tell you the truth, – the shop owner remarked. – Imagine: the fully transparent water goes completely quiet and its surface turns into a perfectly smooth, ideally spotless mirror. And then a silvery bubble leaves the bottom, floats up at blistering speed and explodes; a next one follows; then another, they grow in number… In a few moments the water seethes violently. Despite yourself, you imagine a searing pain the scorching ornament sends through your flesh – yet feel nothing at all, if only a slight tingling. Yet, once you put the chalice back on the table, it all stops – and stops for good, even if you pick the chalice up again.

Gray's lips moved slightly.

"A curious trick, indeed, but what is the meaning of it?"

"I'm afraid it is not known either, – the trader responded. – There is a theory that it is a part of special rite of communication with the spirits of the ancestors, and I do not mean this fashionable trifle of table-turning, but something more old, mysterious and forbidden. The former owners somehow never got to actually imparting the details to the posterity", – he chuckled. 

Few could get the joke here, and those who came about its true meaning thought better of dwelling on it. The treasures of fallen empires that ended up in Jacob Lockhead's hands, London's best expert of all things ancient, a man of considerable connections among the richest in highest circles and the most dangerous in criminal ones, left a long bloody trail around the world.

"I will take it, – Gray said, touching the chalice again. – It is worth to be included in my collection. Make delivery arrangements".

The price named by the trader could drive even Prince of Wales to distraction. Dorian Gray just curtly nodded his agreement. That was the way it was with Lockhead's clientele: they all knew the price, and all were willing to pay up. No one stooped as low as to bargain.

…It got colder and small sieving rain drops turned into sparse snowflakes. One touched marble skin of Dorian Gray and paused before melting. His servant, a dumpy man of hardly definable age or looks (there was too much thick growth on his face), opened the equipage's door. Gray made a move to step in, but stopped halfway – a hand with crooked fingers grabbed his sleeve. Such blistering impudence constituted immediate firing with through blacklisting for good measure, but Gray just looked at the servant quizzically. 

"Danger's afoot, – the latter said. – A strigoy."

"I am not well-familiar with the term, – his master shrugged nonchalantly. – Will you be able to handle that?"

A low growl came from the servant. Gray nodded.

"I will need you in an hour, – he settled in the carriage and ordered, – Home now". 

The servant waited until the coach disappeared behind the corner and then, without much haste, went the opposite way. As in many London roads, there were turns in Old Bond Street where several paces would take you to virtually another world, where no overly curious eye would spot you. 

He ran – not too fast at first, just warming up after a long motionlessness, then quicker and quicker. Then, mightily pushing the ground with his legs, he landed on hands, turned over his head – and from then on a huge hairy beast, resembling slightly of a dog, scurried along the dark alley. 

* * *

London's late evenings could well be counted as nights. Shutters go down the windows, no one outside, even pub frequenters are home by this time. It's often snowing, not that much, not even enough to cover the cobbles by more than couple of inches. The place was a desert, as if it was some sort of outskirts instead of Peter Street. The quiet was disturbed only by steps of a lone passer-by.

A sudden wind blow managed to get under his coat, making Nick the Slick scringe and regret his decision to cover the mile and a half distance to his home on foot.

It was a lucky day even for a chancy and experienced – young age notwithstanding – thief. The pockets were pleasantly lined. It would do him good now not to fall a prey to less successful colleagues, Nick grinned inwardly – but immediately dismissed this stupid idea. There was no predator on this turf which would be any match for him. Nick enjoyed the position of the king of the jungle, every minute of running along the lanes, the ground of his childhood, and stepping down the wide paths. It was especially nice on such fine, quiet evenings. Just… where did this wind come from?

The Slick pulled his hat down and lifted his collar, made a few more paces… and stopped. The wind spent itself just as unexpectedly as it started – the air went still, transforming in a thick cocoon. A noise went into his ears and Nick shook his head in a bid to chase the unpleasant sensation away. He had always been proud of his bang-up health, thanks to which he survived quite a few hungry and cold winters during the time when he got by with small pick-pocketing, in the company of the fellow orphans. Only three of them lived to see their 16th birthday…

"Come here…"

Did he really hear a voice from afar, or was he just hearing things? It would stand to reason it was the latter. 

He paused for a minute, straining his ears, then decided on going on and forget about foggy thoughts and sounds: The Slick was nothing if not a practical person through and through and didn't have much time for metaphysics. That was, in fact, why he managed not just to survive but even earn himself a decent enough living. He adjusted his hat and resolutely headed to the Berwick junction. Another late bypasser, apparently, came out exactly from there. 

Going by a strange gut feeling, Nick the Slick moved over and pressed himself against a wall, making way for an out-of-nowhere traveller. The latter was not in any hurry, now and again turning his head here and there, like a yokel at his first time in a big city. Like there was anything interesting here. Perhaps, it was a foreigner – these stared at every stone, anything was a novelty to them, they all but gawked. Well, this one just might do even that, it was not yet clear in all this dark.

Nick the Slick liked the foreigners – especially the first-timers. Those on their first visit in London were an easy quarry, not a chore at all to rid them from all the things they didn't need (you wouldn't keep things you really need under such loose wraps, would you now?) At least, until they learned to watch it, that is.

Meanwhile, a stranger moved close enough to be had a good look at. The Slick just whistled quietly upon doing so: young, fair-haired, all decked-out, hardly older than himself and, frost be damned, couldn't even be bothered to put a hat on. Girlishly long hair would not, though, help much against the cold – he combed them all back and made a ponytail, too, apparently to help the frost make an easy work of his ears. And, to top it all off, instead of a decent winter coat, he wore a long black cape – would be right at home somewhere in the Opera.

The Slick liked theatregoers, too, most of all because of their habit to doll themselves up while jingling around as much of knick-knackery as they could. It was well-combined with their manner to eyeball the stage forgetting everything else. Maybe, this one was on his way home from the theatre and decided to take a walk, while he was at it?

Well, should it be a foreigner, he was for sure after some historic rock. According to one learned cove who the Slick once followed for a full mile before a chance presented itself, you couldn't spit in London without hitting some sort of relic. If only those were of any good as far as money was concerned. 

A foreigner then, a history lover and a theatregoer to boot, alone in an empty road at that: a right lamb on a sacrificial stone, awaiting the tiger. Nick the Slick used to never steal after his working hours, but this was the occasion, he decided, where the principles had to be forgone. After all, it wasn't even a proper robbery, but a useful lesson for the future, as uncle Angus, who taught the young whelp the ins and outs of thievery, would most certainly say.

Nick headed straight towards the passer, who noticed him, but clearly not the danger it entailed. On the contrary, he even stopped to wait. The thief sighed inwardly: a newcomer, for sure. He might count himself lucky that he didn't came by rough guys who wouldn't just clean him out, but give the wretch a proper knife-tickling as a parting gift. As it stood, a purse and couple of jingles did not seem too high a price for the education.

The wind returned, not that sharp this time, rather light and even merry, and pushed Nick's back playfully. Seemed like it too was laughing at this funny geezer in a theatre cape. The wind blew up Nick's collar, stroke his hat, moving it onto his brow, and scurried toward the youth, swirling the edges of his black cape.

"Hey, mister, have got lost, I see?", – Nick grinned jeeringly.

"No, – the other replied. – Just waiting".

But it was too close for Nick to keep control – the prey was right at hand, there was no suppressing the hunter in him. 

"For whom?" – he inquired, taking his knife from his pocket.

The youth raised his hand, throwing his cape back. As if on his cue, clouds parted above, revealing a bit of a starry skies and half of the moon disc. Perhaps, it occurred to Nick as he got a better hold on the knife, perhaps he wasn't from theatre. Perhaps he was just funny in the head, if there was nothing but a thin shirt even under the cape.

"For you", – the strange bloke said and smiled back.

That was surely the time to leg it fast as he could, following all the instincts and reflexes he ever had, but Nick did not have time to take heed: the knife fell out of his unfeeling fingers, legs turned to stone, refusing to obey him, blood went up stirring in his years and everything in front of his eyes melted, as it wont to happen after a glass too much… half dozen of glasses too much. 

Two fine palms descended on his shoulders, the stranger's face came closer. His misty senses noted how pale it was and registered a silvery glint of the hair in the light of moon. 

"There is no need to fear". 

Before everything went dark before his eyes, a thought passed Nick's brain: angels probably looked like that. 

He didn't feel sharp fangs piercing his neck.

…That is, until a horrible force threw him up in the air, knocking all the breath out of his lungs. Turning on his side with a strain, he shook his head vigorously to get rid of the sparkles in his eyes, and when flashing spots in front of his eyes had formed into a complete picture, the Slick saw the strange youth flat on the ground, trying to tear a humongous furry hound off his body, while the animal was purposefully going for his throat. He succeeded, finally, pushing the beast so hard, it flew off for good ten metres, and shouted something. Nick didn't hear exactly what it was, the noise still raging in his ears.

The beast flattened itself against the earth, turned its head. Its eyes met Nick's for a second, and the Slick tried to squeeze himself into a wall for sheer horror. He had spent his entire eventful, if not too long, life in London so far. He never ventured out into suburbs, didn't even like the Zoo much (cages somehow didn't lift up his spirits at all), yet he saw clear as day that whatever it was after the fair-haired bloke, a dog it wasn't. The fiercest hounds, trained for dogfights, would flee with their tails between their legs – and withered wolves of the Zoo would bless their captivity – should any of them meet this huge ball of rage produced by the wild forests and mountains.

The wolf flew into the air again, going into the youth's chest like some sort of hairy cannonball, sending him down. The fair-haired stranger wiggled, pushed the tooth-barring snout away from him, pressed his foot hard and threw the beast off, jumping back to his feet with an inhuman spryness. Throwing off his cape, he meet the next attack in a torero-like way, caught the wolf in black folds and sent a roaring and seething with fury package into a stone wall, right next to the scared-out-of-his-wits Slick. 

This would break the back of any living thing, but it took only three blows of mighty paws for this beast to get out of the shredded clothes. He covered the distance to his opponent in one bound and blocked his way. The youth, dishevelled, in dirtied and torn shirt, did not look like anything resembling an angel any more: his fine featured were contorted by a grimace, squinted eyes flashed red.

Moving so fast, Nick couldn't quite make out his figure, the youth dashed to one side, but the beast appeared in front of him in a flicker and barred its teeth again. Two failed lunges lattr, the fair-haired one froze, waiting for the next move of his foe.

Jumping like a playful puppy, the wolf moved back and fell on his back, clumsily trying to turn over his head. It wouldn't look funny at all for any observer, though – at least none of those taking part. What rose to its feet in the next moment, was no longer a wolf… but neither was it a human being. 

A dumpy shape with a bent back and ugly head set right on the shoulders stood on strong crooked legs as if some mad biologist forced a wolf to walk straight using only his hind legs, making its animal point look like a disgusting cross with a human. The forelimbs resembled the arms of a huge ape – long, just about reaching the knees – but no ape in the world could boast this kind of talons. The round muzzle of the creature was covered in fur, the jaws stood out and it retained the wolf's teeth. As well, the ears couldn't be taken for anything remotely human. As if in a macabre jest, the most human feature of the monster was his eyes, the mirror of soul. Only, whoever would look into them, they wouldn't find anything in the way of pity, empathy or warmth: hatred and bloodthirstiness reigned supreme there.

The youth snarled in response, baring the fangs just as sharp, and took something like a boxer's position. His slender frame looked woefully fragile next to the primal force of half-beast. They made a go at each other simultaneously. 

Never before in his life had Nick the Slick seen such a spine-chilling fight. They lashed each other with tooth and nail, did their best to tear the foe apart and break completely. It seemed, there was no obstacle to counter the beast's strength, but the young man slithered, in a ghost-like way evading a blow in the nick of time, leaving deep wounds in the enemy's flesh.

Yet he was losing this fight – the other monster was stronger, more resilient and clearly had more experience in skirmishes. 

Having broken through his resistance, the creature grabbed the man by the throat with one paw, caught the shirt with another and rose bodily above his head. Twisting, the victim tried to use his own claws once more, but he was too exhausted to make any considerable damage. The monster threw him away like a rag doll.

The young man tried to get up, but his legs failed him straight away. The animal moved towards him, without any rush, enjoying the fallen enemy's helplessness and despair to the full. He growled something again and burst out laughing – not a human laugh, and animal sound, which made it even more horrible in the frozen silence. Having stopped in couple of metres from a recumbent opponent, he raised a paw, as if pondering whether to deliver the final blow right now, and the youth, gathering his last strength, jerked a hand. As if on cue, out of nowhere, wind blew again, caught some snowballs from the ground and threw them right into the hairy snoot.

The next wind blow came from the other side and brought a reverberation of a call. A high-pitched, piercing whistle made Nick's teeth ache. The beast froze, his paw raised, then stepped forward. The whistle came again, and the Slick felt it within his skull, and pressed his temples desperately to somehow soothe the pain. One hateful look at the barely alive victim – and the monster retreated, leapt, turned over his head in the air, to land and rush towards the master's beckoning as a wolf with a white mark on its chest. 

Having cautiously got up, the Slick – "The Hoary Nick" to his friends from then on – came over to the youth lying unconscious on the ground. Snowflakes didn't melt against the unfeeling face, fair locks no longer held by a band swept the snow and looked damp, the clothes were dirty and bloody, torn all around, Close by, he saw a cuff link decorated with a bright gem – it was torn away from the shirt, complete with a piece of fabric. It looked like it cost a fortune. 

Nick gave it – and the youth's senseless body – a wide berth and took to his heels.


	7. The Count's Case

Mrs Turner woke Jonathan up at 5.30 a.m.

"A foreign gentleman expects you, – she informed. – He claims his case to be of utmost urgency".

"Thank you, be so kind to tell him that I will be with him in minutes".

Once Mrs Turner left, the young man felt around the bed table for alarm clock, looked at the hands, gave a heavy sigh and went about making himself decent. Not that getting up exceedingly early was anything new to him: in his university days he used to spend nights studying, barely stealing away a hour or two to get some rest. But this particular experience was far from the top of his preferred pastimes list. Most certainly not in the top ten. 

The process of setting up the morning wear took him seven minutes, complete with throwing a bucked of cold water over himself – at least, it zinged him up. Getting into his suit jacket along the way, Jonathan got down to the reception. Igor who waited for him there rose and bowed ceremoniously in an old-fashioned greeting. 

Normally, the life in this house started at six, when Annie came to the fore. The maid would lit up the reception's fireplace, lifted the shutters – and, though this particular action didn't add any light to the premises at this time of year, such morning rite marked the end of night's rest and start time of daily chores. After that, Mrs Turner got up and headed for the kitchen. By the time when tenants appeared at the dining room, the hot breakfast awaited, teasing with the aroma of freshly brewed tea or coffee. The fire crackled merrily in the hearth, getting energies flowing. But now, the house was still firmly in the Morpheus' arms, dark, quiet and feeling strangely empty.

"Forgive me for a cool welcome", – Jonathan sighed. Something rustled in the distance, the crockery jingled softly and then the maid appeared in the reception. – "Would you like a cup of hot coffee?" – Jonathan continued, gesturing to Annie at the same time. She nodded and vanished in the kitchen.

"Bless you, – the Transylvanian guest nodded punctiliously. – However, I am not to want waste time, the matter is undel… undl.. urgent. This is to do with the Count Aurel. He is to vanish".

"To vanish? That is… what do you mean? – Jonathan's eyebrows shot up. – Are you sure he didn't just take more time than usual to visit someone? Far as I know, the Count's social life is rather lively, besides, he is young…" He cut himself short, having remembered the nature of his client: a nosferatu's look never gave any hint at the real age they lived to. Or rather, the real amount of years they spent in this world – because in his considerations about the notion of life as such, Jonathan hadn't yet reached the final conclusion regarding its applicability to the vampires. 

"We have to hurry! The horse is to wait outside and we have to go urgently, before…"– the rest of the sentence was emotionally shot out by Igor in his native tongue.

"Wait, – Jonathan held his hand up. – Where should we go? Tell me everything, especially as the coffee will be ready in a minute. Then we shall choose the best route to follow in a level-headed way". 

Igor grunted but, having no other choice than to agree, started his story.

From the time of their first meeting, the Transylvanian's English had improved, and he became easier to understand, but not when he was so agitated. This state of mind destroyed everything Igor achieved linguistically, and Jonathan had to stop him several times to ask for a repetition of this or that passage. In the end, he managed to understand that the day before Count Aurel, having paid all the societal visits, went for his supper late. Igor, as usual, was waiting for the master in their hotel, busying himself with calculations, planning and composing a letter to the count. The nosferatu kept strictly to the rules and no complications had arisen so far. So, when he did not come back at the appointed time, Igor did not worry unduly.

But by the dawn, there was still no sign of the Count.

Annie entered the reception with a tray. Jonathan took it, thanked the maid and set the tray on the table. Having poured the coffee, he proffered one cup to the guest, took another one himself and got back to his seat, asking Igor to continue.

So, having worried duly, Igor put on his coat, left the hotel and set about the search. 

In recent days, Count Aurel often complained about being fed up with dock workers and carpenters and expressed the wish for menu diversification. His mind was finally made after a careless tasting of some Chinese sailor which led to a day and a half of colic suffering: as his many compatriots, the sailor was overly fond of opium. So the vampire chose Soho as his new hunting ground, attracted by the music hall buzz and overall merriment of the public. Actors and actresses, musicians and artists proved much more to his liking. Besides, Aurel tried not to miss the performances either, claiming that their unpretentious yet vivid contents are pleasantly refreshing after overly refined high society entertainment.

Therefore, the servant headed towards Soho straight away. Alas, he soon found that by the time he arrived the Count had long left the "hunting turf", already well-fed (the victims escaped with their lives and remembered nothing). Then, following the nosferatu's trail, he got to Westminster Abbey – the Count meant to take a look at it for a long time, but had a problem making a time for it, what with all his societal duties and particular schedule. 

Having spent some time near this majestic building, Aurel moved on through the frosty night… and then his track suddenly got cut in Peter Street. The closer Igor came to the area, the more noticeably his master's smell was tingled with someone else's. "It is a smell, but not exactly a smell", – the servant explained, touching first his nose's tip, then the middle of his brow with his finger, trying to describe the sensation to a human who was bound within the cage of just five senses. 

"A werewolf! – Igor fumed, crumpling a napkin in his hand. – It is unthinkable that a wild beast is to be allowed in such a cultural city!" 

"Are you sure, Igor?" – Jonathan drew closer to him. 

"I am to smell him as clear as I am to see you, – the other snapped. – They are to have lived in Transylvania for years, but not to run near the castle. My count is not to like them, but he is a gentleman, so he is not to hunt werewolves. Whereas Dr… – he checked himself, – the other count is to make winter coats out of their skins".

The lawyer cursed himself inwardly: Van Helsing and himself missed such a chance to learn so much more about werewolves from Igor. Though they both had been to Transylvania, the idea occurred to neither. On the other hand, their experience of communication with particular nosferatus didn't give any grounds to believe they would tolerate a neighbourhood of another kind, as strong and cruel as themselves. 

Meanwhile, Igor went on about how he got to Peter Street and found clear signs of a bloody fight there. He was close to heart attack at the thought that Count Aurel might have perished, he explained, but almost immediately he recognised the fact that no one's death happened there this evening. Having studied the tracks, he concluded, that, first, the werewolf left there on all fours, if not as spryly as he came, and, second, the Count, despite his young age and lack of experience, rebuffed the attacker admirably. But where could the nosferatu disappear? It might be that he turned into a bat to have some rest nearby and gather his strengths before returning home. The very thought of his young lord coming back to hotel, barely keeping upright out of sheer tiredness, to find an empty room and be left alone with his suffering, filled the servant's very essence with dread.

Igor was this close from rushing back, but natural common sense, a feature particularly valued in him by his employers, prevailed.

The constable on the other end of the street was as happy to get someone to talk to as if he met a long-lost relative. Even though the events which brightened the duty's boredom had passed already, he willingly (especially with Igor's special abilities applied) told everything – how he, with two colleagues, discovered an unconscious youth on the ground, no doubt, having fallen a victim of attack with the intent of robbery. They managed to make the poor guy come to, but, sadly, he couldn't explain anything, what with him just having gone through a violent trauma and, the constables being common Londoners, not a word from the youth's spoken tongue was known by them. The rest of the quiet street's residents – at least those the policemen managed to wake up looking for witnesses – declared in unison that they were all fast asleep and didn't here a thing. Having lamented this misplaced unity, the policemen took the youth to the station.

Several minutes later, the inspired Igor was on his way there. Silently, he gave himself a solemn promise not to be too stern with the Count and omit this unfortunate incident from letter to the count.

But, once at the station, he encountered another obstacle.

The victim of the attack got conscious enough to switch from his native tongue to English. Igor was just in time for the resolution.

"The lord Aurel is to be insulted, is to refuse answer questions put to him by commoners and is to demand be treated as a nobleman. But he was not to be listened to, was to be accused of disruption of public order, was to be put in a cell and to be trialled next morning. The lord Aurel was to want to kill them all, but I was to say, the Count was to order to be polite! I was to say, you are to wait! You are to be a lawyer, Herr Harker, you are to free my master. He was to agree but was to order to hurry you up. We need be there, or the Count is to get out himself!"

Jonathan pictured a sight of an enraged vampire, going about "getting out himself" from a police station – and shuddered. There was truly no time to waste. Putting the empty coffee cup away, he jumped to his feet. A detailed map of London decorated the Professor's study wall – of course, Mrs Turner would never allow it in the reception – but, luckily, he knew the area in question well enough anyway. 

"Kings Street station, you say? If we shall be quick, I hope, we'll get there before the Magistrates hearing. You mentioned an equipage, Mr Igor?"

The carriage waiting for them was magnificent. Never before had Jonathan Harker had a chance of travelling this luxuriously. It most likely didn't belong to the Count – a rented coach, no doubt, but crazily expensive one at that – yet it suited the city journeys ideally, if the one making the journey was a heir of an ancient noble line, with a tendency to keep himself to himself, well out of daylight. Igor flung the door open, personally took the reigns and requested, looking pleadingly the lawyer in the eye: "Not to report this happening to my count, please. He is to get anxious and angry."

"I solemnly swear to keep it all a secret", – Jonathan promised.

The door flung shut, Igor pulled the reigns and gave a half-whistle, prompting the horse to move.

* * *

The streets were still devoid of people, the bulk of passers-by consisted mainly of policemen. But already the rap of opening shutters started, and they had to pause once or twice to make way for cabs. 

Finally, the equipage stopped. Jonathan looked around, though truth to be told, the brick house of the police station caught the eye straight away: four floors, solid build, rather impressive overall. Playing a David up against a Goliath of bureaucratic structure for a while, the lawyer passed several layers of steely clerks and finally learned that the Count was no longer in the cell: all of the detained had been escorted to the Magistrates already. 

…There, in the hearing chambers, was where the solicitor finally found his client. The latter waited for his turn in a company of drunks, small thieves and couple of students accused of hooliganism. The young man kept away from the rest, clasping his shoulders, perhaps from cold, or maybe for solitude. 

Several minutes later, after the latest student had been fined and told to move along, whereas the burglar caught red-handed at the scene got jailed, the Lord Justice looked at the Count with some interest. The accompanying constable customarily rattled out his name, rank and the matter of the case – the hearing of the judge was something to be envied, should he really get any sense from this sputter (that's supposing he listened at all, because there were clerks for such things, and this one, perhaps, was the only one in the premises who had got a slightest idea of criminal justice law). Jonathan singled out today's justice clerk immediately and quietly sighed with relief: at least, this was a familiar face. It looked like there was quite a chance for quick and peaceful resolution.

He waved at the fellow from afar to get his attention and then gestured first at the long-haired youth on the bench, afterwards at himself, and finally, with a quick energetic pantomime let the clerk know that he was defending. The clerk gave couple of nods and scribbled intensively. 

"One Aurel Atilla von Vittelburscharschtaufen, – the constable slowed down at the tricky surname, hobbling thrice in the process, – from Austrian Hungary, is accused of breaching public order. At the station, no less, and contempt of police, to boot! If it was up to me, – he added quietly, – would I ever get this foreigner a year or two of corrective community service, by Jove…" 

"Does the detained plead guilty?" – the judge inquired sternly.

"Guilty of what exactly, getting cruelly attacked and robbed, that is?" – Jonathan verified.

"Not guilty!" – the vampire stated defiantly. 

Jonathan started his speech. Should really the Count, even if he was too hot-tempered in dealing with gallant members of city watch, be judged too harshly? Yes, the horror he underwent and natural for young age vigour of responses did get better of him, but the actual misdemeanour was not really that grave. So let this be a lesson for him, which, surely, he will not forget in a hurry… 

Despite talking for less than a minute, Jonathan had enough time to present an expressive picture of the Count's deep remorse. It held everybody's interest, including the client himself, who, probably, even tried to visualise an image of himself in any sort of remorse.

Beating down a smile, the justice clerk whispered something to the judge, who nodded his approval and announced the verdict: "I sentence the perpetrator to five pound sterling of fine, on payment of which he is to be released from custody".

"A daylight robbery and no mistake", – Jonathan muttered to himself and stealthily made a fist at the clerk. The latter grinned. 

It fell on Igor to pay the fine.

Having been subjected to a brief homiletic parting speech from the judge, Aurel clearly meant to have his say in response, and Jonathan groaned inwardly, already imagining the next hearing, this time on charges of contempt of the court, but, thank heavens, the servant instantly rushed to the vampire's side, clucking and lamenting. 

"Five pounds, – he indignantly turned to the lawyer. – The court is not to have any good conscience!" 

"The contempt of the police, – Jonathan reminded. – This kind of offence is close to amounting to treason. His grace got away lightly".

On the bench, meanwhile, the kaleidoscope of faces continued, of varied degrees of glaucescence, bristling and thickness of sideburns. Another rattle by the constable, via several words from the detainees, led to another sentence, which took two or three minutes.

The next poor devil nodded, pleading guilty. He was rather young still, wearing, in distinction from the fellow prisoners, a rather solid clothing and looked overall decent – just a random victim of circumstances, after a jolly start of the evening having landed at a Kings Street cell. The judge recognised this, too, and mitigated the reprimand: a small fine and almost paternal reproach did it for this particular defendant. The detainee nodded vigorously, most likely powered on by still swirling in his brain alcohol vapour. The violent movement caused the thick scarf unfurl and fall on the ground, revealing two small fresh wounds.

As he moved towards the exit, still unsteadily and looking a little unfazed, Jonathan stepped aside to make way, and then turned to the Count, deeply regretting not having an aspen stake, or at least silver cross, about his person.

Aurel meet his seething eye and lifted hi chin haughtily.

"This breakfast didn't please me one bit. Horrible environment, and the taste left a lot to be desired".

Igor shook his head and said something reproachfully indiscernible, the Count responded acridly, and the servant spoke to the lawyer, choosing his words carefully: "Is to be necessary for my master, – he sighed. – He was to be weak after the fight, much strengths, much losses… But he was to be polite!"

Jonathan turned away. Forgetting that his client's everyday looks were a sheer disguise would not do, the sobering reality was bound to strike sooner or later. He felt a nasty tingle all over again, first time in months, at the very spot where small white scars on the neck were left, long-healed bite marks, the souvenir from his first visit to Transylvania. Aurel might be fickle and breezy, his father might be aristocratically dignified, but nothing of that changed their true nature.

Those who survived a close encounter with the Count's brethren usually went deep in denial, locked in the recesses of their own mind, or submitted to wrath and hatred, joining the ranks of slayers. Having escaped the former route and tried the latter for a while, Jonathan chose the third way, though occasionally he suspected it of being an utter madness. It took him some effort to chase away bleak thoughts: there was no point of wringing his hands over it just now. Besides, what could he do in the situation – deny the Count his services, thus setting him unsupervised on the entire city of London? 

"If you are alright with that, Count, I would like to talk to you about last evening's event", – he said as their entire party left the court. It was well after dawn, and the dark grey of early morning turned into the light grey of day. To think that somewhere far away sun was shining, generously gracing unknown lucky ones with light and warmth…

Count wrinkled his nose and shook his tousled head resolutely. "I am not in the mood to discuss this. And for what purpose?"

Jonathan shrugged. "Perhaps you might like to make a formal complaint, – he silently congratulated himself with still being able to joke. – Our police, criticised with such glee by our English public, are also our pride and joy, and such an outrageous attack on a high-born foreign guest is bound to make a dark stain on their reputation".

"Thank you so very much, but I am not disposed to go back to the station, not today, not any time soon! – the nosferatu snapped. – Besides, can I really appear in the society looking like this?" Aurel waved his hand dramatically, pushing his fingers almost under the very nose of his solicitor, calling for sympathy to his own horror about the state of his manicure. In front of Jonathan's very eyes he turned back into a regular young upstart from the high circles, an entertaining-loving rake. This side of Aurel Jonathan had got accustomed to by now. 

"Are you to join us? – Igor inquired, climbing into the driving box. – We are go to the hotel, I am to order a breakfast, while my lord is to take a bath2.

A breakfast… Young man's stomach reminded him immediately that he didn't have any meal since a light supper the day before, plus one cup of coffee this morning. Of course, the priority was the chance to ask Igor about the werewolf… but during a meal.

"Thank you for your invitation, gladly. For this evening I would like to arrange another meeting, after the Count has had his rest. I found a mansion which appears to comply with all the requirements".

The vampire who already settled in the coach, hanged out and looked at the lawyer, fascinated. "Then let's go now! – he exclaimed. The breakfast be skipped, I am not hungry."

The stomach gave an indignant gurgle, but Jonathan willed himself to stifle the organism's protest. 

"Looking around may take some while, – he reminded his client – Would the daylight not present some danger?" 

The nosferatu jumped out of the coach and threw his head back, looking at the skies.

"It's a fine weather, – he declared. – Mon oncle trusts that London's climate even surpasses our Transylvanian one. And now, Mr Harker, relay to me what is known about this house. Does it have any history? I do hope its walls witnessed secret passions, dramatic scenes and bloody plots. Do the silent shadows wander the garden in the night? Do tell! Or rather, please don't: I so love surprises".

Jonathan gave the youth a measuring look. "I am convinced that you grace will appreciate this house. I will just explain the way to Mr Igor…"


	8. The Attic Secret

By the standards of Belgravia, the mansion at Lowndes Place was on a modest side: just three floors, a pittance of six bedrooms! Of course, the reception hall, a wonderful library fit enough to be a gentleman's study, the dining room and a lot of things beneath the worry of a gentleman's family, went without saying. But this house looked like a wild flower in a conservatory next to traditional palaces of the surroundings with their five or six storeys of luxury – not that grand as orchids or roses, that is, but not one bit less alluring for that. 

It was first owned by the youngest son of Lord Sannocks. His – and his young spouse's – names started the count of a dark tale, speaking of which was considered not a good manners. Sufficed it to say that on one sad morning the family doctor pronounced the lady Sannocks dead from a heart attack – oh how sad a case it was, such a pity when death strikes most beautiful women in their prime. The negligible detail of loving husband's tendency to beat the most beautiful woman up, resulting in bruises on her marble neck (and the traces of fingers as well) – was just as conveniently omitted from mentioning as the rest of the matter. The rumour ascribed several tempestuous affairs to the social life of the deceased, the gossipers in the society never forgot that the marriage itself was a misalliance and went against the parents' wishes. Anyway, after his young wife's death, the young lord ordered the sale of the house and left for India where he promptly died of black fever… whatever whoever said about poisoning.

Let the death rest in peace, in any event. And then a new owner took possession of the house. He was a successful banker, a happy family man, a merry father of four daughters. Not that anything bad came to him or his family – they simply left in two years after his wife gave birth to boy twins, thus giving him an idea that they would now need more space. All this talk about mysterious groans and rustles, as well as flickering shadows in the recesses of the house's corridors had surely nothing to do with the decision.

The next one to come after the banker was colonel Gerrard, an old bachelor, war hero who boasted a marvellous set of hunting trophies. A cool-headed man, having never yielded in the face of danger, be that of human of animal nature, he lived there for three years before deciding that London hustle-and-bustle didn't do any good to a man's health. His friends visiting him later in Hampshire in his summer house, infallibly pointed out the ruddiness flourished on his cheeks and well-improved appetite. In a year the colonel married his neighbour, the Warlow widow. Truly the Mother Nature performs miracles when her lost children come to their senses and return to her arms.

The fourth owner of the mansion, Lord Abbot, was a newlywed and planned to spend many happy years under its roof. The tragic story of the first dwellers did not discourage either him, or lady Constance. But before long the young lady started to suffer bad nightmares. At the time, the spiritualistic sessions at the lady Holloway's were all the rage. She held those twice a month, on Thursdays, all courtesy of Mr Peabody, well-known medium, who established connection with the afterlife as easily as he accepted the payment cheques. By personal request of Lord Abbot, the lady lent him the medium's service and he conducted a private session. No one ever found out the outcome as the lord and lady exercised the utmost restraint in the matter, whereas the medium himself made a solemn oath (and drew a written obligation) to keep everything discreet, but in a month the homeowners left for the pastures new, far away from the country, having in advance instructed their appointee to sell the property.

And so it happened that the mansion, despite all its beauty, hadn't seen a human presence for almost two years, exactly from the time when Breyce family acquired it for the rent purposes. The more scary and curious details came into the home's history, the more relentlessly its price decreased. So by the day when the assistant of Sir Jacobi, Breyces' law agent, relayed to Jonathan Harker the particulars of the mysterious and sad fortunes of Lowndes Place mansion, the rent went down by almost a third.

Keeping his blazed-up fascination to himself, the young solicitor calmly expressed a wish to have a look at this curious building, hinting that a foreign nobleman, represented in London by his company, might, all being well, become interested of making use of this premise as his winter cottage – and then, the circumstances permitting, completing a purchase. The assistant was more than willing to escort Jonathan for the inspection.

The house showed every sign of being kept in the perfect order, though the personnel did their best to spend there not one bit longer than necessary. At the first step in, Jonathan's skin crawled. It felt as if some strange hostile eyes followed him everywhere, and something distantly akin of sickly breathing and shuffling pacing constantly interfered with the normal sounds. An invisible presence permeated this house, and its corridors were filled with dark, tragic reminiscences. Jonathan concluded that the Count would approve of the ambience. At least, to him, it was very much alike one in the count's castle.

His feeling proved right. Once in, Aurel took to looking around in detail with barely concealed enthusiasm. He inspected the hall, then decisively pulled on a heavy double door, finding the reception behind it, and pronounced the latter the designated space for the housewarming party. 

Then the nosferatu moved to the library, where he stopped for longer. His verdict was that the collection was not quite as extensive as his father's, but contained more new arrivals, which were always late in Transylvania: finally he would be able to keep abreast of the latest novels to discuss them in society without delay. 

The Count didn't pay much attention to the administrative enclosures, or kitchens or staff quarters; he habitually turned all this over to Igor, who just nodded silently at whatever his master said from whichever corner of the mansion and scribbled away in a thick notebook. Having looked at him from the corner of his eye, Jonathan decided it was just the time to talk about werewolves.

"You must care for his grace a lot", – he started in a roundabout way. 

"The count is to command to look after him, to accompany him and to protect him, – Igor replied. – A big city, Herr Aurel not to have been in such before".

"What about the count himself?"

"The count to have been". The servant made another mark in the notebook. Jonathan looked over his shoulder, but only managed to make out several words of the most down-to-earth nature: calculations of refurbishment costs. "The count is to go to Vienna, to Paris, long time ago. To say, big cities are to cause migraines. Nothing is better than our mountains. Nothing better than Transylvania!" Patriotism flared up in Igor's eyes.

"Do you not like London?"

"London is a nice city. Big, many people. Excellent weather for child of night". 

Jonathan snorted. "And how is it for werewolves?" 

"No, werewolves are not to live here, – Igor shook his head. – That one was the only one, when there are many, we are to know. The count was to hunt them often, he was to say: listen, Igor, how are they to sing? What that is to mean? It is to mean, these creatures are to run in my woods again! And then he was to come out and to beat them flat!

Something razed against Jonathan's nerves at these words. Another voice surfaced to the memory – the one the lawyer would happily forget.

"You mentioned that Aurel's father did not hunt werewolves?" – he finally pinpointed the bothering thought. 

"No, my count is not to hunt them, – the other confirmed. – The other count, I was to serve him before. He is to be his relative, from the castle you paid the visit to, when with the Professor".

"The count… – Jonathan paused before speaking this name, – Dracula?" 

"Oh yes, yes! – Igor beamed. – He is to call himself Dracula, as in dragon. His father was to be in Dragon Order, him too. But, – he winked, – I am not to say that and you are not to hear that, we are not to name names. Herr Aurel's father was to be very upset and not to want that people to hunt his son and to come under the castle's gate with stakes".

Jonathan had to fight hard to suppress a burst of laughter. An aristocratic vampire didn't want his name to be associated with an… inconvenient relation who left in his wake a trail of not so happy memories, indeed.

"I was to serve the Count "D", that is how I am to call him, all right? – The young man nodded. – I was to serve him for years and years. But he was to fire me! I was to be blamed, I am to admit, when the count was to hunt, I was to invite a guest to the castle. He was to be a traveller, to get lost, to look for a way, I was to invite him to stay for a night. He was to be a polite guest, to have a dinner, to sing very well, we all were to listen to him. In the morning he was to leave and the evening of the same day the count was to return. He was to notice that a visitor was to be, and was to become angry, was to say I was not a fitting servant in a decent nosferatu castle. And he was to discharge me!" Jonathan thought that by the count's standards, this response amounted to something of a Christian mercy of the highest degree.

"Then I was to get hired out by the other count and explain it all, and the other count was to say that the cousin's character was too hot-headed. To say, he was to go to war too often. And now I am to serve the count and his son. For twenty years already!"

"And are many of the nosferatu related?" – Jonathan was intrigued despite himself.

"Almost all of them, but to varied degree", – the answer came from the Count before Igor had a chance. Aurel stood next to the balustrade on the third floor and looked curiously at the marble floor's ornament, the view of which was excellent from this position. Then, in one swift leap, the youth jumped over the railing and landed softly on the floor below. "My closest relation next to the father is count Dracula. I understand, you know him, Mr Harker? It is such a pity that I didn't witness these goings-on first hand, – he went on dreamily. – They discussed those for months afterwards, it's not that often that things like that happen in our remote province. But I was touring our grounds at the time, when the father told me all you were gone". 

"Hadn't come around any werewolves, by any chance?" – the lawyer inquired dryly. The handsome face of the Count contorted in disgust.

"Wild beasts dare not cross the border of our lands, – he said. – Only the true wolves come when the nights are clear and sing. We like to hear their songs, my father and I. Werewolves, on the other hand, sing not – they just howl. These animals are incapable of producing anything beautiful. 

"So what does this animal have to do in London?"

"Serves, – the Count spat the word out as if most keen to rid himself out of it. – I heard his master calling him and this miserable hound made a rush for it. When we meet again…"

"You will not, – the lawyer snapped. – In London, your safety is our responsibility, and your behaviour is yours, and to us, your grace. Such is the contract. So you will tell me all you know about these creatures, so the Professor and I could find and neutralize him". 

Jonathan Harker was shorter than the Count a little less than by a head, and in any event was not a match for him in term of strength – or skills, for that matter. Yet the nosferatu stepped back and lowered his eyes.

"Very well. But not now. By now, I would rather look around some more. Will you join me? Igor, follow Mr Harker".

"Yes, my lord" – the servant replied resignedly. 

They climbed the stairs together. 

"I will go for this house, – the Count said. – It is wonderful".

"Are you alright with the ghosts?" – the lawyer was sociability itself.

"But there is only one of them here, – the Count got all merry and happy again. – It appears on midnight, such a banality! Igor will handle it, I don't want it to bother my guests, or myself. I have nothing against apparitions, we have scores of them in the castles, but ours are much better-behaved…"

* * *

At the dusk, having paid the supper its due, Jonathan Harker retold the events of the day to his companion. The professor was in tears and all but lost his spectacles for sheer laughter while his young colleague to pitiless detail described first the journey to Belgravia ("Mr Harker, would you by any chance have a file about you? Left it at home? Oh such a pity!"), then the inspection of the mansion ("oh, are those real English little spiders? Charming!") and finally the journey to the hotel, where the Count was gracious enough to only spend two hours to bathe, manicuring and going through his clothes for the signing of the rent contract. Igor was stunned and confessed that he had never seen his lord in such a hurry. Yet, using this pause, the Transylvanian ordered a lunch from the hotel and the hungry solicitor appreciated his graciousness fully. 

"Dear God, – Van Helsing groaned, when Jonathan finally got to the end of their travails. – Tell me… Had you at least had a chance meet the ghost, too?" 

"Alas, not a one, – Jonathan sadly replied, his eyes gleaming from the light of gas lantern. – As the Count was kind enough to explain, the dweller of the mansion doesn't appear in the light of day, and most likely, will not ever at all, from now on. Mister Igor took it upon himself to get rid of the spirit by the customary Transylvanian means. I have to admit, I even felt sorry for this undead wretch, hopefully he will find him some attic or basement nearby. Meanwhile, our guest is immersed in solving the most complicated puzzle at the moment: how to decorate the dining hall. I hope to God it will preoccupy him for a while."

"One can but dream, – Van Helsing nodded, diligently scuffing his spectacles with a big handkerchief. – Hopefully, the stay with police will not tarnish his grace's impression of your beautiful city overmuch. But, – the Professor sighed, – we did take the obligation to look after his grace. And, alack a day, we did let this confrontation happen. By the way, thanks again for the details about werewolves. So… the beast has a master, I take it?"

Jonathan nodded. "According to his grace, these creatures are very much given to the instinct of the pack – they can't bear lone existence for a long time. A changeling needs a master, someone to give them guidance – and in return for that, the beast pledges his full loyalty". 

"I understand, the master of this one must be a rather wealthy person, – the Professor sighed again. – So it's more than probable that he belongs to high circles, and the Count regularly meets him at the receptions and balls. My, I do hope this incident was a random chance…"

"Mr Igor imparted something else on me, – Jonathan raised and came over to the window. – Just a vague hint, for he doesn't know enough to be dead positive, but, so to speak, youths of noble blood, he believes, easily fall victim to peer pressure, throw all caution to the wind and jump headfirst into adventure. He is right about that. Local youths won't look twice at the kind of fun which doesn't promise the prospect to land at a police station. Meanwhile, London is not the safest place in this world. Well, at least the Count had his chance to get a taste of a truly English type of entertainment". The young man paused briefly and went on. "He declared that what's happened is considered by him a valuable experience and that's the end of it. I believe him, mind: the idea of relating this to his father must look even less appealing to him than to Mr Igor". 

"I must admit, for a nosferatu, his behaviour is exemplary. For the entire time of his stay so far, not a single dead body with the signs we can sadly easily recognise". 

The image of the man with two marks of his neck he saw at the court flickered in front of Jonathan's eyes. 

"No, he does not kill, that much is true. The Count is tidy, supposing the notion being applicable to the vampires". 

"Peer pressure, – Van Helsing drawled slowly. – A few days ago it came to my knowledge that the Count had shown a particular interest in Mr Dorian Gray. Do you know anything about him, Jonathan?" 

"Not much, our circles do not overlap. I don't even seem to remember seeing him up close. He is Lord Kelso's grandson, lost his parents early in life. Was a friend of Lord Henry Watton in his youth. Travels a lot, boasts an impeccable taste and a humongous collection of pretty much everything, from paintings to gemstones. Immensely rich, too, – Jonathan specified dutifully, gathering everything he ever heard about Gray from any trustworthy source. – Surrounded by an entire host of full variety of rumours and wild speculations, to boot". 

"I did see Mr Gray a couple of times at the club where I am a regular, – Van Helsing said pensively. – Something of a society for the scientific-minded, it is. We are not introduced personally. Strange, how come he became such a celebrity in such a short time, considering his age. Though, young men are noted for their vigour and, more often than not, lack of direction to use it well".

"Young age? – Jonathan shook his head. – Mr Gray is forty now, though, if what I hear is true, he is more than handsome and is not burdened by the years at all".

"It cannot be true, my friend. You can look well at any age, you can care for your body to the best standards – and it will reward you beyond your dreams – but the most patient efforts won't keep you looking as a fresh 20-year-old at forty".

"Nevertheless, so it is", – the lawyer remarked.

"When he was pointed out to me for the first time, I noted, – Van Helsing said quietly, lost in memories, – there was something not quite in place about his face. These young freshness, beauty and innocence… for a second, something so tainted, so sinful flashed from under it all, I was scared. Truly scared, Jonathan! Horrified. I imagined what kind of depravity could commit a man looking like this, and my blood curdled". 

"I didn't think much of Dorian Gray before, – Jonathan spoke slowly. – But now that you mention it… Remember, professor, this isn't the first case of glaring discrepancy between the looks and true age we have ever encountered. Our own Transylvanian client looks no more than twenty".

“A nosferatu, then? – Van Helsing rubbed his chin, looking doubtful. – Would be one way to explain their friendship with the Count. But how could he keep it secret this long? He couldn't, not without some victims for evidence". 

"He could, should he keep on the side of caution, – the young lawyer seemed to be rather taken with the idea. – I can cite some precedents I heard about…"

"No, – the professor objected. – I don't think it possible. Had the Count mentioned anything like this? Not that I can think of. But even assuming it somehow slipped his mind to inform us about meeting another of his kind in London, Mr Igor would never let this pass. Even less so if he is wary of Mr Gray's influence over his charge. No, Jonathan, I believe Dorian Gray to be human. And this may be far worse. Humankind is capable of many things, no one knows it better than we do. And if…" – he fell silent again.

Jonathan knew what he was talking about, but didn't break the silence. Neither voiced their concerns, but both thought about what could a vampire do should he fall under the charms of a person like Dorian Gray. 

The resulting hush was suddenly broken with soft yet clear sounds of music. 

"Jonathan, – Van Helsing asked, – do you hear what I hear?"

"It appears, someone plays violin, – the young man drawled incredulously, jerking his head. – Again. But what's the source of this sound?"

"What a romantic tune, – Van Helsing remarked, – do you not agree?"

"Brahms, it sounds like", – Jonathan presumed. 

"I would not like to frighten you, my friend, – Van Helsing rose from his chair, – but the sound comes from somewhere above". 

"It's my bedroom up there, and on top of it, the attic". 

They exchanged looks and were at the door both at once. Jonathan let Van Helsing go first and thought that it would be not too bad of an idea to drop in to his room along the way and get his loaded Smith-and-Wesson from the bedside table. 

The sweet sound of violin got louder and more intense with every step up they made. 

The attic proved not locked. The professor pushed the door. Jonathan armed the trigger. 

The moonlight came in through the luthern. The violinist had his back to the visitors, his long lanky figure clothed only in trousers, shirt and vest. The jacked was thrown carelessly on the stool in a corner. The darkness ate up most of the outskirts of the place. 

The last note sprung from under the stick and the violin fell mute. 

The man kept his violin on his shoulder for a couple more seconds. Then he bent down, putting the instrument down. Jonathan raised his pistol. Van Helsing warningly put his palm on the young man's shoulder.

The mysterious dweller of the attic straightened, pushed his hand into his pocket and fished out a piece of black cloth he pressed against his face.

In a split second, he turned to them.

"Monseirs! – Eric exclaimed, throwing both hands in the air. – Welcome to my humble residence! I so hoped you would visit much earlier than that!" 

…Later, at the fall, Eric would share it with the Professor that he immensely enjoyed the experience of observing the two gentlemen's "genuinely fallen jaws" at their attic tour. The Professor, in his turn, would be just as sincere in relaying that one of the gentlemen was this close to shooting the uninvited guest down. But ex-Phantom of the Opera would just shrug it off: "Shooting Erics is not the easiest of sports…"

"At least, – Van Helsing said calmly, slapping Jonathan's shoulder, – now we know the origin of these strange sounds".

As their eyes gradually got used to the half-light, the contours of things became clearer and they could make out the clutter of the furniture, pushed against the wall to make more space available near the window. As such an operation could hardly be performed in a quiet way, the only possible conclusion was that the attic dweller got about it while the tenants were out. The sofa – which clearly had seen better times, – was loaded with a mattress and a small pillow, warm throw was crumpled, and several white paper sheets lay on it, covered with scribbling. Much as the poor lighting allowed to see, the writing consisted of small black signs. An oil lamp on the round tabouret did not burn. It was cool, but not chilling.

"Strange sounds", – Eric snorted. – You are not that fond of music, are you, Monseur Professor".

"Unlike you, apparently, Monseur Phantom of the Opera", – Van Helsing returned. 

Eric tensed, drew himself up, string-like, then froze as a cobra ready to attack. He stood sidewise to his guests, moonlight gliding over the smooth cloth of the vest, contributing to the snake-like impression. A thin rope forming a noose appeared momentarily in his fingers. The air suddenly condensed becoming thick and heavy. Jonathan grabbed the pistol's handle so intensely, his hand ached, ready to pull the trigger any second Eric would make a move towards them.

But the latter still held his ground, motionless as a statue. Then there was laughter from under the mask. And from the way Professor squared his shoulders, from the smile in the corner of his eye, Jonathan knew that the shooting, fight and, perhaps, a killing were not the order of the evening. He disarmed the trigger and pushed the weapon back to his pocket.

"So, I became subject of your investigations, – Eric snorted. – Why, I'm flattered". 

"Have you lived here long?" – Van Helsing asked.

"For quite a while, let's say. At first I simply liked the place, but when it turned out that you needed someone for delicate missions, I said to myself: Eric, this is the fate beckoning! You have to settle down here to be always on call. Indeed, don't you dread to think what might happen while you would be rushing here through the entire city from where a gentleman of our stature could rent some pittance of a room…"

"…While here, of course, you don't pay any rent, too", – Jonathan put the unformed thought swirling in his head into words. 

The cloth of Eric's mask rippled, but is was anybody's guess whether the face behind it was distorted with anger or a mocking grimace. 

"I just got fed up with basements, through and through, – the former Phantom explained defiantly. – Even the cosiest of them, like the one I had in Paris. Oh, Paris, Paris… my wonderful France!" – he looked sideways at his visitors, checking their response. 

"What then was it that made you leave?" – Van Helsing griped, pulling a stool from the corner. Having checked that all four legs were present and wiping dust – of which there was much less than could be expected from an attic exile of furniture – the Professor settled down, folding his hands and showing his keenness for the answer most clearly. 

"My political convictions, that's what", – Eric responded impishly, using his leg to get a chair closer and sitting down opposite. 

"Oh was it, now?" – Jonathan, left without a chair or even suggestion to get one, couldn't help piping in. 

A predatory yellow fire flamed up in the mask's eye incisions. Eric leaned back, graced the lawyer with a look combining contempt with pity and intoned in a voice imbued with pathos: "L'Historie de toutes les societes humaines jusqu'a nos jours n'est que l'historie de la lute des classes! – Then he fell silent for a while to enjoy the resulting impression and added: -Le Libre developpement de chachun est la condition du libre development de tous." 

Van Helsing's face was unreadable. Jonathan, for the nth time, inwardly regretted his limited linguistic prowess: the tone of the self-appointed neighbour was outright mocking, which fanned a burning desire to respond in kind, but, as things stood, it could only too easily lead to the lawyer making a fool of himself. 

The Professor, without much haste, took his glasses off, wiped them thoroughly with his handkerchief, planted back on his nose bridge, and looked at Eric with mild interest. 

"I must admit, I did not expect such a revolutionary views from you, Monseur Phantom".

Eric burst out laughing. Evidently, he was mocking them. 

"The revolution smoulders in every Frenchman's heart! – he declared proudly. – Unlike that London of yours, where, I strongly suspect, you haven't ever had a single decent barricade". 

"The London bobbies dislike street riots rather acutely", – Jonathan finally made out a stool against a distant wall and moved towards it. Two of its legs were unsteady, but, having checked their reliance, the young man braved the chances and sat down. He marked it to himself though that comfort was, most likely, out of the question. The mask rippled again, and the solicitor could make a bet that this time it was a sign of utmost disappointment. Of course, it was still a guess: there was no way of telling for certain what features this dark cloth concealed. He paid attention to the mask right from the start of their first encounter, and now he realised what it was about this particular one: the face seemed to be utterly flat, noseless even… though it more aroused his curiosity than pumped up his normal level of wariness. The recent events made young lawyer rather accustomed to the most particular clients, looking most… variously at times. 

"You see, according to the law, the burden of compensating to the casualties of such events lies with the police. The good Londoners, perhaps, would have nothing against making some living that way, but the enforcers of law stop any such attempts on the grassroots level, – Jonathan specified. – Besides, if memory serves, the cornerstone of your track record is robbery, with a good measure of extortion, and that doesn't look very political to me".

"Don't forget vandalism, – Professor Van Helsing piped in with a chuckle. – The police of Paris were kind enough to generously share with me the information available regarding your person. Your biography is… impressive, politics or not". Eric shrugged. "But it makes for a compulsive reading, a match to any popular novel, no doubt". 

"An excellent idea! – the former Phantom of the Opera snapped his fingers. – Occurred to me, as well". And then he added, dreamily: "It was quite a scoop. This plot, if beefed up with exotics and romantics… By the way, gentlemen, have you had your supper yet?"

Jonathan and Van Helsing exchanged glances. "I am afraid, Mrs Turner is very particular about the schedule. Except for the special contingencies, that is". 

"True enough, our esteemed landlady is a rather pedantic person, – Eric agreed. – A glass of wine, then."

Before the Professor had time to object – assuming he had any such intentions, – the Phantom of the Opera leapt from his chair in a flicker, pulled a heavy crib to the middle of the room, throw a piece of white cloth on its flat lid and with amazing skill served a light refreshment on the makeshift table: cold meat with some helping of cheese. 

"Your homeowner had got a rather decent sherry, – he said, disappearing in the shadows, only to reappear again, bottle in each hand. – Whereas the neighbouring basement proved to contain the Chateau d'Icemmes, now that was a surprise…"

Jonathan locked the eyes with Van Helsing's and his eyebrows jerked up. The Professor pressed bent index finger to his lips, as if struggling to keep the laughter in. The young lawyer felt like a part of Jeronim Bosch's picture – a phantasmagoria, monstrous and paradoxical. Jonathan was not fond of paradoxes. They flied in the face of jurisdiction. 

"As a solicitor, it's my duty to remind you, Professor, that this amounts to a conspiracy", – he noted.

"We shall be co-defendants, – Van Helsing grinned, taking one of the bottles and wiping away the lawyer of dust from its neck. – I seem to remember that several days ago Mrs Turner mentioned there were less of supplies in the cellar than she expected. She even doubted the cat's virtue. In that, the creature got lazy and let the rats run free… Haven't you noticed any rats around, Monseur Eric?" 

"No, – the other responded, unfazed. – I would, however, give another look to the carpenter's apprentice who Annie dates. – I would wager, the guy does a bit of thieving in his spare time. Well, then…" 

Turning away for a moment, he folded the lower edge of the mask, revealing a sharp chin and thin lips – it would be a non-trivial task, indeed, to drink otherwise. His thinning thatch of hair gave a funny metallic glint under the light of moon. Long locks were held by a lace, the shorter ones just dangled around the mask-covered face. 

Three glasses of ambivalent cleanliness followed the bottle. Noting Van Helsing's pointed look, Eric shrugged and theatrically gave them a handkerchief rub before filling and proffering two of them to his guests. 

"I would rather have an ole good Tokay, though", – he remarked. 

Jonathan chocked a bit on his wine. Eric hit him couple of times on the back sympathetically. "It is difficult to find a true blue Tokay, though". 

"So then, – Van Helsing said, emptying his glass in one gulp, – I take it, your intentions are to stay on?"

"As you probably learned by now, – Eric started indirectly, – I am dead for the rest of the world. So what you see, gentlemen, is but a ghost. Would an apparition overburden this house and its lady all that much?" 

The Phantom of the Attic – what a demotion! Or did their host, considering the situation of an attic related to that of the basement, in fact go up in this world? It took Jonathan a considerable amount of effort to keep an acrid comment to himself.

"I have no doubt that Mrs Turner would gladly rent this premise out to you, – the Professor said. – For the appropriate fee, of course". 

"I will pay up the very moment I get my own wages, – Eric promised with a snicker. – The money is a pimp for the need and the needed…" 

This time it was the Professor turn to cough chokingly. 

"With all due respect to your political views, I must point out that Karl Marx and sherry do not blend well". 

"Rubbish", – the Phantom of the Opera disagreed and filled the glasses again.


	9. English Justice

The Old Bailey towered imposingly. The three storeys of a brick building cried out for the general repairs… or for complete demolition, which had been a burning topic for years. After all that happened in more than the two last centuries – fires, riots, more fires – it would be easier to build from scratch than trying to patch up what there was left. Nevertheless, the delays to the plan were just as perpetual as the talk of it 

Yes, indeed, to flatten the old to the ground, and then… Jonathan shook his head throwing unexpectedly bright image off it, and then it suddenly occurred to him that Monseur Eric would appreciate the metaphor. 

…He was the first to leave the wine party yesterday, when this turned out to be the result of their attic visit. He did, indeed, excused himself to the Professor and their new neighbour, but the former got so immersed in talking with the Phantom, they hardly even noticed his absence. Eric switched fully to the French, the Professor responded in some linguistic mix, but they had no trouble getting each other's meaning. The evening culminated by return of the violin, which the new tenant used to play several lilts, thus illustrating his own ideas of art development. Jonathan liked the music, but decided to postpone the discussion of ideological grounds for a better time. 

When back at his place, he flung the window open first and foremost, letting the stream of cold air hit his face. The trick was to catch the point when the alcohol spirits would dissipate, but before the cold would take grip. Closing the shutters, the solicitor hoped dearly that he calculated correctly.

Fortunately for him, in the morning it didn't feel like Jonathan Harker's debut at the Old Bailey's main stage was under any threat of complications – such as the debutante's voice getting cracked and lost at the middle of the most poignant speech… 

The hearing of Geoffrey Campbell's case was to take place at the secondary hall, not at the Old Bailey itself, but in nearby building. Most of the cases at all were heard here for quite a while: the withering furnishings didn't appeal to many. 

The public gallery was packed, even some spaces in the passage were taken: the premiere was high-profile, the plot – thank papers – well-known, and nobody could predict the outcome. It was worth the fuss to think about the tickets in advance. Well, figuratively speaking, as the admission had been free for who-knows-how-long. 

Far as realistic dramas were concerned, Old Bailey was more than a match for Old Vic. Well, of course, on stage you got the benefit of a repeated performance, having a chance to return to the sensation of acting nuances, director's mastery and playwright's skills. On the other hand, Central Criminal Court offered the audiences dozens of plays in one day, all tense or mesmerising, with all sorts of endings, from tragic to positively giddy. All of those were one-off performances, and the actors rarely had a chance for a curtain call, but especially notorious cases could indeed get an encore. It was not unknown for a real life court action to be relived on actual stage.

There was, too, a romantic aura around Geoffrey Campbell's case – double thanks to the press. Did the two men really go to a mortal fight over a woman? All in all, in short, there was no surprising over the fact that the audience was not nearly entirely male. The ladies put their best frocks on, whereas their consorts had smelling salts on the ready, should the goings-on prove unbearable for the delicate feminine feelings. Praise be, Eliza wasn't anywhere in sight: she was called to the hearings as a witness and so was her father, so they waited for their turn in separate quarters. 

Some of the present company looked around with an interest, taking in both the surroundings and the jurors, some were visibly bored – regulars, most likely, those had seen scores of cases already. This type of spectators usually criticised everything afterwards and complained that the passion of old was long gone. Several gatherers chatted quietly, perhaps, guessing whether the verdict would be passed before the lunch break – a luxurious meal of several courses was allocated for the jurors, unlike the great unwashed, not considered worthy of such a generosity. Some read the latest morning news, having set the edition on their lap. One dandyish-clothed young man whispered in his lady companion's ear, perhaps, leaning closer than the decency conventions would allow. She shook her head in amazement. At the outermost seat in the last row, there was a specimen whose very appearance would prompt the most complacent bobby to go for handcuffs. They said, perpetrators often visited the hearings, to observe their less fortunate fellows in crime, to inspect the settings, to prepare for what future might hold, which did, of course, include a chance to get in front of the judges in the dock themselves. Two seats righter, Professor Van Helsing settled down. 

Just below the judges' desk, there were reporters, notebooks wide open, pencils at the ready, – and so were lawyers, acting and prospective. Jonathan, despite himself, remembered himself sitting there, as a jurisdiction student, learning the ropes first hand, though then he didn't mean to go for criminal law. 

He was about to go back on his – likely rush – decision even not so long ago, more than once, telling himself that experienced lawyer would be much more suited to the task of defending Geoffrey Campbell than a wet-behind-the-years first-timer. He even visited an acquaintance, practising barrister, meaning to ask him to take the job, with Jonathan as assistant, which would be right and proper. Yet this request was never made. He did not, though, leave the house empty-handed: the friend readily lent him his robe. Not the wig, though (his own was stolen during a hearing's break). "It's nothing compared to what else might happen at the Old Bailey", – the man noted. As a result, Jonathan had to rent a wig from the theatre dressing room, hoping sincerely that this carnival would remain unique in his career.

The judge, His Honour Edward Elliot, took his place – high, spiny, draped in bright scarlet robes, the letter of law personified. Capital one, at that. Only the defendant's seat was empty – Geoffrey hadn't yet been led into the court. Jonathan remembered again the words of his first mentor he heard from him when starting the course: the court hall is the duel area. Oh yes, the lawyer sighed inwardly, there were times when a defendant had to spar for his freedom, or life itself, against the clumsy and ruthless judicial monster, all on his own. Then barristers came into the picture. Three or four centuries ago they would arrive complete with armour, swords and hopes for the justice of the Almighty who would bestow the victory on the just and spare the innocent… Now, there was black robe instead of the shield, evidence-recording, mark-making (poor endless codex and law books) quill instead of the sword… well, the faith and hope for justice didn't change all that greatly. So, in fact, not much changed all that greatly. Essentially speaking.

Geoffrey Campbell entered the hall. Hushed oohs and aahs came from the public gallery, dozens of pairs of eyes ate the detained hungrily – here he was, accused of murder, perhaps, to be convicted of one, and then he lived his last days! However, even the defendant shared some of those thoughts, he didn't show it. He held his head high as he stepped towards the dock, just briefly, almost imperceptibly, nodding to Jonathan, then stood near the barrier, putting his hands on the edge, ready to take the challenge.

"Geoffrey Peter Campbell, you are charged with murder of Bartholomew David Field, committed on 18th of November this year. Do you plead guilty?"

Geoffrey lifted his chin and knapped: "Not guilty!"

And so, ladies and gentlemen, the show begins…

Constable Curry, called up as a witness, gave an oath, named himself, complete with the rank and told the judge and jurors how, being on duty at the evening of 18th of November, his attention was drawn with pleas for help, how he followed the call and met Mr and Mrs Wilks, as well as another person who called himself Geoffrey Campbell. Yes, the defendant was the one. The one who called himself so was overly agitated, in a dishevelled state of dress, insisting that he was attacked with an apparent intention to murder. Having sent Wilkses for reinforcements, the constable followed Mr Campbell to the scene of the incident, where he found a young man's corpse. Yes, he could establish beyond the reasonable doubt that it was a lifeless corpse, because its neck was broken. Then he inspected the scene of the crime while waiting to help. Soon Constables Warton and Blane came over, and together they delivered the body to the morgue and got Geoffrey Campbell to the station. 

It took a while for him to finish the story, as he answered every question in detail.

The quality of witness was paramount, Jonathan remembered again from his first mentor's course. They had got to make jurors like them and be convincing. So if your goal is to get a "not guilty" verdict, do your best to find trustworthy witnesses who would convince everyone in the room – or at least those particular 12 in the room on whom the verdict would depend…

Constable Curry manifested an ideal witness: he looked impressive and decent, his voice sounded nice. He embodied the very tope of English policeman to which any proper citizen would fun for help, the one whose steps and loud whistle would put the fear of God in any perpetrator. How would one doubt his words – or find there something in Geoffrey's favour?

"No further questions, – the prosecution smiled ironically, turning to Jonathan. – He's all yours".

The judge, the prosecution, the jurors… and the audience, not to forget. It's your turn, dear lawyer.

The robe, suddenly all too heavy, interfered with his breath, but Jonathan made the effort to look calm and level-headed when he rose and moved towards the witness box. Again sighing quietly, he pictured himself in Transylvania, and in place of the jurors, the relatives of the Count Aurel, with his uncle at the head… he even had a scarlet robe, to boot… The resulting picture was colourful and the young man felt a bit more assured.

"Where was the defendant as you waited for help?"

"He was with me, at the scene of the incident". 

"Did you order him to show you the way?"

"No, – the constable shook his head, – he volunteered". 

"Did he make any attempts to leave the crime scene?"

"No, sir".

"Did the route of your patrol include the dead end where my client was attacked?"

Another shake of the head from Curry: "No, sir".

"Anywhere close?" 

"No, sir". 

"In other words, you simply wouldn't look there during your patrol, thus not learning about the death of Bartholomew Field, but for the help of my defendant, Geoffrey Campbell?"

"The other constables could discover the body", – the witness pointed out reasonably. 

Jonathan took the London map lying on the table. It included marks showing the regular patrolling routes. 

"As the honourable gentlemen, without a doubt, must be aware, all the London constables have to strictly follow certain patrolling routes – very strictly, may I reiterate. The scene of attack on my client is situated away from those. There are no dwellings there, no shops or warehouses, it wouldn't attract even a small thief, this is a useless dead end of a place, could stay unvisited for days. Tell me constable, if you would be so kind, why would Geoffrey Campbell call the police there, provided he was indeed the murderer? 

Out of the corner of his eye, Jonathan watched the jurors. Some leaned forwards with a definite interest, some shook their heads pensively, apparently mulling over the same question. 

"Perhaps, he was overwhelmed with a sense of remorse,.. – constable Curry muttered unsurely. – I have been serving for nearly 12 years, it does happen that the heavy conscience gets better of them. That's when they rush to us and spill the guts.".

"Indeed? – the lawyer asked. – And was that what my client did when rushing to you, confessing the murder?" 

"No sir, he didn't". 

"Yet he did insist that the police was called and on his own good will accompanied you to the place where, most likely, neither you nor your colleagues would not find any reason to come, constable. Mr Campbell went to you for help, and you accused him of murder and put him under arrest. You know, it appears it would do good to the rest of us to be aware in advance that, asking the police for protection, good Londoners run a risk to be thrown behind bars themselves!"

The prosecution jumped on his feet protesting, and the judge called for order. Having looked sternly at Jonathan, the Right Honourable Justice Elliot instructed him not to stray away from the subject matter.

"My apologies, – the lawyer bowed his head. – I will move on to another question. Constable, had you noticed any direct evidence of my client's guilt at the scene of crime?"

"The dead body, I did! – the policeman snapped. – The poor devil's got necked like a chicken, whereas the accused looked like he just got out of one heck of a fight – torn clothes, fists grazed… and speaking right rubbish! First he said he and his pal were attacked by some bandit, then once there and seeing the corpse, he shook wildly and started to declare that, you see, it was not just your regular bandit, but real monster, fangs and all!" 

"And how did the corpse look? – Jonathan inquired. – You did have a good look, did you not? Was his clothes also torn, any grazing of the fists?" 

"I can't remember it all now", – the constable shrugged.

"But you did give a detailed description! – the young solicitor exclaimed, smiling disarmingly. – And there, you pointed out that the deceased's hands were clean, his clothes was whole and unsoiled, save for the spots where it met the ground. I can but conclude that the deceased was not in any fight at all".

"Looks like that", – the constable admitted unwillingly.

"Then, if my client was in a fight, it was with someone else? For example, could it be the very robber he informed you about?"

The prosecuting barrister leapt to his feet again, clearly about to protest, but Jonathan didn't give him a chance, declaring that he was satisfied and had no further questions. 

Returning to his seat, he saw a very attentive look from the barrister who represented the prosecution. 

There was a low buzz around the court room. The audience chatted, exchanging impressions. The judge knocked with his hammer, calling for silence and called for the next witness.

Mr Harlow, a forensic pathologist who examined Bartholomew Field's body at the police morgue, testified under oath that the death resulted from the breaking of the spinal bone at the neck's region (which he described meticulously, together with the other injuries). There was no questioning his love to his profession, which, judging by a notable greening of some jurors' faces, was more than appreciated by the audience. 

"Tell me, Mr Harlow, – the prosecution was smoothness itself, – is it difficult to break a man's neck?"

"Not at all, – the pathologist replied. – Any fit enough man can do that, knowing how to go about it". 

"Could Geoffrey Campbell, the accused, do it?"

"Even you could, all that would need is…" – the witness inhaled, clearly meaning to grace the present company with the most eloquent instruction of necking your neighbour, but the prosecution flinched and declared no further questions were following. The judge asked if Jonathan intended to perform cross-examination, and the lawyer rose immediately.

"Which other injuries, apart from breaking of the neck, had you discovered?"

The expert, giving Jonathan a heartfelt look of gratitude, went for the most colourful description possible, so in minutes the spectacles shared the misery of the most sensitive jurors. 

Having admired the sight, the lawyer concluded that the victims of Mr Harlow's elocution and loyalty to his craft had enough experiences for the day and would only thank Jonathan for sparing them another course of the same. 

"Can you specify the cause of each injury?" – he asked.

Harlow shrugged, visibly hurt with having to cut the lecture short. "I would say, it was most likely all caused by falling from a height". 

"Is it conceivable that the breaking of the bone itself could result from such a fall? – the young man clarified. – Say, by hitting the ground in less than fortunate way, or not even the ground but a cobble, for example?" 

The pathologist shrugged again, pensively. "It is not unprecedented, – he said. – Not this time, though. There are finger trails on the neck, and other signs, such as…"

"Can you assert, – the lawyer interjected swiftly, – that these prints were left precisely by my client, Mr Campbell?"

"No, I cannot, – the expert declined. – I did not personally examine the defendant". 

Gordon White, the owner of the Green Bull pub, took the witness box and testified under oath that the late Bartholomew Field visited his venue from time to time, alone or with a friend, who was now present in the dock, and one of those times was evening of 18th of November. According to Mr White, Field came already a little worse for liquor and spent nearly an hour at the counter, until the defendant entered the pub, after which the two of them had a tug of words. Did the deceased attempt to hit his friend? Why, did he ever! The prosecution asked to clarify how the accused Mr Campbell reacted, and the witness did clarify that, as Field was drunk through and through and barely could keep himself upright, the accused reacted by helping him to avoid falling down, by getting Mr Field under his arms and dragging him outside. Had Mr White a chance to see such scenes before? Countless times! That is, the prosecution meant when the late Mr Field and the accused Mr Campbell were involved? You should say so before, Mr lawyer! Not too often, but a couple of times the good old Field was right on a bender, and his pal came for him to help him get out. Once, he even had to ask some of the regulars, not yet fully out of it, to give him a hand to pack the poor devil into the cab…

"Does the defence have any questions?"

"I do, – Jonathan rose and came over to the witness. – Did my defendant help his friend into the cab on the evening of the tragedy?"

"Yep, some or other of our guys looked outside and even though some assistance might be needed again, but they managed. A coach drove up straight away, so Campbell made it himself, got the drunken one seated and sat himself too"/

"Can you by any chance remember the cab's number?"

Mr White threw his hands in the air sadly. 

"No further questions".

Before the break, the court still had time to heard the fiancee of the accused, Miss Eliza Hopkins, and her father. The girl declared that she never gave Bartholomew Field any hope – she always loved Geoffrey Campbell and him alone, she was absolutely certain of his innocence and would, without question, marry him, no matter what. Her passionate speech was met with a wave of admiring sighs from the ladies at the public gallery. Eliza's father, Mr Walter Hopkins, was less enthusiastic, but still assured the judge and jury that the defendant was heartily respected and welcomed at the house of Hopkins', and there was no reason to suspect any modicum of cruelty in his character. On what terms was the defendant with the late Field? Mr Campbell and the late Field were pals from their student days. Did they have any quarrels? Several times. Were those serious? Nothing two or three days of cooling wouldn't fix. Did the young men use their fists on any such occasion? The witness snorted and announced that, far as he knew, there was no such precedent. 

* * *

The eatery at the court was the stuff of legends. The stories of its finery and riches on the menu were so vividly picturesque, it was a toll-taking subject matter even for a fully stuffed audience. Oh the wonders of those dishes! They said – just keep it hush-hush, this should never see the light of the day – that one of the chefs was once involved in high treason, but got a full pardon just for his extraordinary culinary skills. Yes, and the wine cellars of the Old Bailey rivalled those of the royal family!

Was it all true or a figment of gossips' imagination, Jonathan couldn't tell, nor did he see any chance to tell the fib from the fact in the foreseeable future. A mere lawyer had no way of entering the Judicial Dinner Hall. 

Entering the nearest pub instead and looking around to find a vacant seat, the young man was about to choose the table near the entrance, and then someone's heavy hand landed on his shoulder.

"We were expecting you, Monseur Harker", – the hollow sound went from under the scarf wrapping a face. Then, the ex-Phantom of the Opera pointed at the distant corner of the pub where Professor Van Helsing, and someone Jonathan didn't know, decked in a dark grey coat, already settled down. Picking up from the counter a heavy tray, loaded with four brown mountains of beer glasses, all complete with snow caps of foam, Eric went over towards the companions, easily balancing the whole unwieldy splendour on one hand. 

"As I told you from the start, you're managing admirably, – Van Helsing nodded at Jonathan approvingly and turned to the Phantom of the Opera. – Merci, Monseur Eric", – he thanked, taking his glass.

The lawyer sat on the edge of a chair near the Professor and grabbed a plate, gesturing his refusal towards the beer. 

"Oh yes, you sorted this sorry policeman out right and proper", – Eric flopped down on the bench near the passage, thus blocking any chance of retreat for the stranger. Jonathan lowered his head, pretending to be fully occupied with the fries in gravy. Still, he did have time to get a good look at the fourth occupier of the table: most likely in his forties, reddish sideburns and moustache, light eyes and square chin. The cloth of coat was expensive and of good making – a wealthy gentleman, exuding the air of confidence, only a shadow of peeve occasionally darkened his face, as if he was interrupted while doing something important. Eric, however, was seemingly amused by the guest's irritation. Who is this coated specimen, then, and what is he doing here? 

"It is nice to hear your kind words, gentlemen, – the lawyer said, – but please, exercise some caution. The hearing is not over, anything can happen. Besides, I am not sure I deserve such praises".

"Trust me, my friend, you do, – the professor ascertained. – Meanwhile, my doctor's recommendations would be to give this unpretentious but nutritional meal its due. You need strength for the second round of the match". 

Jonathan grunted. "I rather compared the hearing to a stage play in my thoughts", – he confessed.

"Of course, – Van Helsing agreed. – For the entire world, as our great fellow countryman observed, is a stage"…

"Whereas the stage is the chaos personified, striving to go down in flames, burying everything around, unless there is a firm hand directing it all", – the Phantom of the Opera suddenly piped in with a gloomy sadness. Noting others looking at him quizzically, he waved their curiosity away, clasped his glass and hunched over it, pulling his hat brim nearly to the chin.

"What is your planned course of action after the break?" – the Professor asked.

"I will call the Inspector Clay as a witness. He made the murder charge, and I will ask him to explain his choice under oath, – a bloodthirsty glint went up the lawyer's eyes. – Also, I have a couple of surprises for the jury up my sleeve. If there will be alternative version of events, supported by hard facts, the defendant should be acquitted. I will give the jurors some food for thought".

"Our friend Mr Stuart will be of help here, – Van Helsing said, pointing at the stranger. – We must thank Monseur Eric for his help – after all it was he who found this gentleman and persuaded him to testify".

"I would expect to be compensated for the lost time, – Mr Stuart grumbled. – After all, it is not my duty to attend the court on demand by the defence". 

"Monseur, – the former Phantom spoke insinuatingly, – is one's personal participation in preserving justice not its own reward? What better compensation there is? Think of a poor young man whose life might depend on what you will say, think of a rope noose…"

Eric moved his fingers meaningfully. The Scot's eyes followed the move and he winced visibly, nodding his agreement. 

"Indeed, my honour as a gentleman can't stand for an innocent man walking the gallows". 

"Then I am all eyes and years", – Jonathan said, preparing to listen to Mr Stuart's story.

* * *

The hearing resumed after lunch.

The audience in the hall grew in numbers, perhaps because those present at the first part of the case invited those they knew. The reporters took strategic positions to become the first to inform London of the outcome. The judge and jury looked content. The same definitely did not apply to Geoffrey – sitting in the dock as a defendant in murder case could hardly be anyone's preferred pastime. Eliza and her father sat at in the front row of public gallery. The girl clutched the barrier so hard, her knuckles turned white. 

"The defence calls Inspector Peter Clay", – Jonathan announced.

It was a risky move. He only went for it because the inspector personally attended the trial as a spectator. Many of his colleagues knew about his habit of visiting notorious cases where "his" defendants were involved. Jonathan learned of it, too. So now, a picture of puzzlement, yet without an option to decline, the Inspector Clay marched to the witness box. 

"Adjure the witness", – the judge commanded.

The policeman gave Jonathan a withering look and solemnly swore to tell the truth and nothing but the truth. 

"On the evening on November the 18th you charged a man with murder. The defendant is my client, Geoffrey Campbell, – Jonathan began. – Tell the jury what prompted you to do so".

The inspector shrugged, nonplussed, but answered.

"There are two foundations for any charge: having a motive and having a means. Both applied to the accused Campbell". 

"What, then, was the motive for such a cruel deed, in your opinion?" 

"As old as this world, – Clay grinned with condescension. – Jealousy, what else? At such an immature age it can drive one to various actions, and you would be amazed, Mr lawyer, how many most horrid crimes happen in our city on a weekly basis because of sheer jealousy. The accused did confess that they fell out with the deceased because of a girl".

"So this is the motive you claim him to have, – Jonathan concluded. – Nevertheless, Miss Hopkins here (the public's eyes turned again to the girl in the front row) informed us under oath that her heart belonged to Mr Campbell in the first place. On which grounds would he get jealous in such a case?"

"Only the defendant had an opportunity to inflict a lethal injury on Mr Field! – inspector raised his voice. – They were alone in that alley!"

"What about my client's evidence about a robber who attacked them?"

"A pure balderdash and utter drivel! – the inspector snapped. – Nobody in their right mind would believe a word of this tale about half-man, half-beast. We are in London, gentlemen, not in Africa or India!"

"In other words, you do allow for such creatures' existence in some remote parts of the world?" – Jonathan specified innocently. 

"I did not say that".

"I recall the question, – Jonathan grinned. – Nevertheless, what gave you the grounds for believing that my defendant and the late Mr Field were alone at the scene? The alley is situated quite far away from the Green Bull pub, and they would not get there on foot by that time. On the other hand, there are witnesses of Mr Campbell and Mr Field getting in a cab. There were also tracks of four-wheeled coach at the scene. To make a long story short, inspector, here is my question: why was the cabman who drove the coach not questioned immediately? The driver of the carriage, that is, which got both of the involved to the place of the killing and was then found two quarters from there?"

"We could not find him", – Clay retorted. 

"Then this is why you charged Mr Campbell, without any direct evidence or eyewitnesses' statements, basing the case on a false motive. You used his state of mind, in which he could not defend himself. No further questions. Mr Prosecutor, the witness is yours".

Returning to his seat, Jonathan, even without looking, tangibly felt furious look of Clay and fascination of the public. The witnesses like Peter Clay, he thought, had a little chance to ingratiate either audience or jury to themselves – they have a gift of making enemies. Well, sometimes, this particular quality has its uses.

The prosecuting barrister rose and started to ask clarifying questions of the inspector. Strange, it occurred to Jonathan: despite their goals being at odds, the actions of his colleague showed more aspiration towards learning the truth than towards getting the poor Campbell convicted. Could it be that the man had no wish to get an innocent hanged, or did he simply fully appreciate the risk of having the true murderer on the loose? Well, for an honest servant of the law, which the prosecution here must be, there was only one way in any event.

By the time he finally let Inspector Clay from the witness box, the jurors all but dozed off, exhausted by narrowly professional questions and detailed yet dull answers. Not a good thing, the audience were at risk to oversleep the culmination.

"The defence can answer why the cabman could not appear in court and give evidence under oath", – Jonathan intoned, rising again. He waited until the judge nodded his agreement, stretched his shoulder, inhaled profusely and loudly, so as to be heard even in the remotest of rows, announced: "The thing is, this cabman,.. – he held a theatrical pause, – is dead!"

The spectators gasped in unison. 

The rest of the action went as if by the numbers, clear as a musical piece played by an exemplary orchestra following a perfect conductor. Constable Jameson described the body of cabman John Dobbs discovered in the district, the police doctor relayed his estimation of the time of death – the cold weather prevented anything truly precise, but there was no doubt in the Scotland Yard that Dobbs had been dead for at least two days at the time of discovery, so there was no way he could drive his coach on November the 18th. The owner of coach exchange where the late driver worked, Mr Hahn, testified under oath that the vacancy still remained open, and, moreover, nobody knew what really happened, while the equipage roamed the streets of London for two days, likely to be driven by a killer. 

So here it comes – the time for the show-stopper at the end. Mr Stuart took the witness box and raised his hand making an oath.

"My name is Francis Stuart, I live in Glasgow, here in London for several days to complete an important deal. On November the 17th I took a cab in Fleet Street to be in time for an appointment. I am not a regular visitor to London, thus it took me some time to realise that the cab went in the direction different from where I needed to go. I demanded the cabman to stop the coach and explain himself immediately…"

The rest of Mr Stuart's story coincided with that of Geoffrey Campbell: the one at the driving box took a passenger after the nightfall, but before police went out to patrol, then brought him in an empty place, far away from the main streets. Then a brutal attack followed.

"..-I don't know how the things done in London, but where I come from, in Glasgow, gentlemen know how look out for themselves. I had a staff about me, and hit this geezer with it well enough for him to be left with several unhurt ribs less, I'd wager! He jumped away and leapt to the driving box, whipped the horse and off he was, leaving just a whirl of snow where the wheels were. I, meanwhile, wondered these streets for eternity before finding a policeman at last. Of course, I recorded a complaint at the station. What an outrageous incident, that's it, outrageous it was!"

Jonathan had his doubts about the werewolf running for it just because of the furious Scot's stick. After all, even monstrous force of a nosferatu didn't discourage him from a fight. Moreover, he would finish this formidable foe off but for the call of his master… Probably, this time, it played its part as well.

The prosecution waived his right for cross-examination.

The jury considered the case for but a few minutes. The lawyer froze as if it was he who was on trial… in a certain sense, so it was. 

"Not guilty". 

The curtain call, indeed. 

Jonathan hearts made a bit, pondered a while, then went on. After which it raced as if after a long run. 

Jonathan tore the wig off and run his fingers through his hair, as if trying to chase away some sort of instigation. 

The entire party then went for a celebratory dinner to Mr Hopkins' house, to exult at Geoffrey Campbell's regained freedom. In a secret, Campbell imparted to Jonathan that he would ask for Eliza's hand this very evening, formal proposal and all. 

"No, gentlemen, – Jonathan said, getting into a cab, – the criminal cases are definitely not my glass of beer". 

The Phantom of the Opera who was about to climb to the driving box, stopped, burst out laughing and slapped the lawyer on his shoulder so hard, it took the latter an admirable effort to keep his balance.


	10. A demolition at the museum

Next day, Jonathan was allowed to lounge it in bed for longer than usual – the Professor deemed his assistant fully deserving of some rest… within reason. When the young man came down for breakfast, Mrs Turner, setting a pile of morning papers at the edge of the table, had noted, with a whiff of reproach, that an errant boy rushed in about an hour ago, with a brief letter. He screamed as if there was a housefire, demanding to see Professor Van Helsing, who read the message, refused the coffee and left, having paid the urchin an entire half of a sovereign! 

To much delight of Mrs Turner, Jonathan expressed a mild shock at the amount of the fee. He sensibly refrained from adding to it the surprise at all the urgency, reasonably assuming that the Professor will share everything important enough with him. 

In less than quarter of an hour there was a bustle in the hall and Jonathan reluctantly put The Times away. 

The former Phantom of the Opera, still in his long-tailed coachman garb, held a blindingly ginger boy, all tousled and hissing like a wild kitten, by the scruff of his neck. "Guv'nor! Let go, guvnor!" – the boy screeched in a basso voice. 

"What's happening there? – Jonathan enquired. – E-eric", – he drawled disapprovingly and raised his eyebrow. Eric unwillingly let his victim go, and the latter dashed immediately towards the lawyer, taking the position behind him. 

"I brought a note from Mr Van Helsing! – the sprog complained. – And this… this… one, he will not pay up!"

"A little scoundrel, – Eric snorted. – I gave you a shilling! Which I honestly earned, too!" 

With a magnificent unflappability, the boy informed present company that he considers his efforts worth no less than at least a crown, adding the direction where any contemptible pikers might go with their miserable shillings. 

"I don't earn as much as his idea of the tips!" – Eric exclaimed in righteous indignation. 

"Can it be that you too fell to the values of heartless hard-cash centred world? – Jonathan asked innocently, stifling a grin rather conspicuously. – That's how the revolutionary ideals crumble under the bourgeois oppression…"

"If you have money to spare, Mr Harker, it's up to you", – the Frenchman snapped.

Jonathan issued a crown to the runner, who grabbed the coin and rushed out.

"Hey! My shilling!" – Eric sprang to action. 

"Leave it, – Jonathan waved his hand. – Where's the note from Professor?"

"I got it for you", – the ex-Phantom informed and gave him the slip. 

"My dear friend, – it read, – this night, the mummy of Jemmurabi was taken from the British Museum by trespass. Lord Hamilton is inconsolable. Come as soon as possible". 

"I need to change", – Jonathan muttered.

"My cab is at your service", – Eric bowed theatrically, holding his hat with one hand. 

"Yes, but…" 

"I am dying to have a look at an English destruction", – the former Phantom of the Opera imparted confidentially, with an impish glint in his eye. Jonathan just sighed. He should have known, of course, that the hired hand for "discreet missions" chosen by the Professor wouldn't miss a chance to nose into his patron's affairs for the world. 

Professor Van Helsing met Jonathan at the front entrance stairs. He didn't seem to be very surprised to see a tall figure in black hovering nearby. 

"The constables are now at work in the hall where the mummy was stolen, – he reported. – When they are done looking and will start examining the witnesses, it will be our time". 

"Shall we be let in?" – Jonathan asked.

"Oh yes, Lord Hamilton, who was kind enough to inform me about the goings-on this morning…" – Van Helsing started, but then Lord Hamilton himself interrupted their conversation by entering the picture. His magnificent moustache drooped, the Gavroche was tied without any care, and the voice was filled with such suffering, Jonathan sincerely felt an utter compassion towards the poor man.

"Come, let's go! – Lord Hamilton called impatiently. – I want to hear your thoughts about it, Professor Van Helsing!" 

"You can rest assured you'll hear them", – Van Helsing replied and, having introduced his assistants, hurried to the scene of crime. 

Two constables were on duty at the entrance. One of the doors was torn off its hinges, the other leaned dangerously, still held in place by a sheer miracle and threatening to fall down and take anyone not cautious enough with it any minute, so the policemen preferred to keep a sensible distance.

"So, how do you like it?" – Lord Hamilton invited Van Helsing in with a flourishing gesture. 

The sight inside could hardly be to anyone's liking.

The displays along the walls were thrown down, the priceless treasures littered the floor interspersed with the glass shards. The podium for the open sarcophagus which was meant to contain the mummy (the lid's place was at the head, on separate stand) stood at the cntre of the hall. Another most valuable exhibit was supposed to complete the set, but now on the tall pedestal allocated for it, there was but a a rat carcass with head half-torn off. 

"Disgusting, – Lord Hamilton's dismay was heartfelt. – A miserly sewer dweller replaces the work of art!" 

"But where is the sarcophagus?" – Van Helsing inquired, stepping carefully. Glass debris crackled under his boots.

"Vanished! – the Lord Hamilton's smile was gloomy. – Along with the pharaoh himself and some more exhibits. Exceedingly valuable ones, to say the least".

The former Phantom of the Opera stood still near one of the walls, his hands folded across his chest.

Jonathan circled the podium, marvelling at the sheer strength of mysterious robber. His attention was drawn to a writing on the opposite wall.

"BYWARE"– he read. The dark letters were far from neat and untidiness of those resembled scribbling of a D student. 

Van Helsing stealthily gestured to Eric to come over. "What do you think of all that?" – he asked quietly. Gurgling laughter-like sounds came from under the scarf.

"I think, sir, as far as the art of destruction goes, the English are wholly incompetent".

"A curious thought!" 

"Not a modicum of grandeur here, the entire process limited to one room, and even there it's so… – Eric snapped his fingers, searching for a matching word from the available vocabulary… – dull", – he finally settled on a choice. "Not a bit of creativity behind it, no inspiration".

"You, of course, would do it all differently", – Jonathan teased.

"Oh, I am a master performer. In the Commune times, I could tell you…" – Eric grunted and fell silent.

Jonathan rolled his eyes.

"Just you try and stop me! – boomed from the entrance, and lord Darnham stormed into the hall. – To hell with that all!" – the gentleman was not in the mood to reign in his temper and the constables sensibly returned to their positions. 

"Can you imagine, gentlemen? – the lord continued hardly missing a beat. – The museum has been robbed! I was interrogated by the police! As some kind of a… scoundrel! Hello Professor!"

"Sir", – Van Helsing bowed slightly. 

"The extremely rare specimen of ancient arts of Assyria and Sumerians vanished without a trace! My golden goat, it the jewel of the whole display, disappeared too!" 

"Here's the English for you, – Eric grumbled. – They would taint even a demolition by a thievery". 

Jonathan's breath was taken away by high dudgeon. Van Helsing put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it a bit, restraining the colleague from rash words. 

Darnham, meanwhile, was busy painting his trauma and anger in most vivid colours: "Years of work, diplomacy, life-threatening digging, all gone…"

"Our pharaoh escaped as well", – Hamilton interjected.

"And that's two days before the opening d…, – Darnham stopped short of ending the phrase. – What do you mean, escaped? He rose from the dead, after all, you mean?" 

"Evidently, he after all did, – Lord Hamilton threw his hands in the air. – Just as we feared".

Professor Van Helsing coughed politely to get some of Egyptologists' attention.

"In this many years, – he said, – the venerable pharaoh had some time to learn a better English".

"How do you mean?", – Lord Hamilton frowned.

"Forgive me for being blunt, gentlemen. The pharaoh has been dead for several millennia, and this,.. – Van Helsing looked around the demolished contents of the hall, – this scenery… Do not let it lead you astray. We are men of high intelligence. I highly doubt there is anything magic or mystical about this. What we have got here, are just your regular thieves, though, I must admit, quite skilled and rather witty ones. Not too well-educated, though. Even I, a foreigner, know the correct spelling of the word "beware"…"

The Egyptologists exchanged glances.

"In fact, this alone does not amount to a counter-argument, – Darnham noted pensively. – It is well known that Mr Jemmurabi had troubles with writing and spelling even when ruling Egypt…" 

"…Some researches believe he was illiterate, – Hamilton stated. – Then there was this long confinement in a sarcophagus, and you can hardly call the repository environment particularly enlightenment-inducing…" Noticing that the professor was visibly taken aback, the lord grabbed him by the arm and shook it heartily. "May I ask you to investigate this totally out-of-line robbery? Your experience… your connections… our priority is not so much the perpetrator in the dock as the pharaoh back in the museum." 

"And my goat, too!" – lord Darnham added predatorily. 

"I will do the best my modest capabilities allow for", – the Professor bowed his head and stole a look at his companion. Jonathan nodded and said: "I would like to have a word with the inspector who is in charge of the case".

"I believe, that can be arranged, – Lord Hamilton responded. – Follow me, I'll show the way".

Eric, marking Van Helsing's glance, put his finger to his hat's brim as a goodbye, and slithered out of the hall, leaving the patron with the lords. 

"I am sorry, Professor, – Hamilton said, nonplussed. – I did not think I would have to turn to you once again so soon".

"Forget it, milord".

"Naturally, I didn't for a split second believe that the pharaoh truly rose from the dead…"

The Professor smiled approvingly. 

"Nevertheless, I must admit, I'm disappointed. Since I was a boy, I have always hoped to meet a real, true pharaoh, not some wizened mummy". 

"I can well understand how you feel".

"So, will you undertake the investigation?"

"At your service". 

"Whenever you need anything, you have but to ask!", – Darnham explained, and, taking a last look at the writings on the wall, marched out of the hall first.

* * *

When he once conceived a passion for chemical experiments, Dorian Gray turned the basement of his Mayfair home into a lab. His old friend, Alan Campbell, now deceased, a chemist himself, was at first surprised by such an interest... but only briefly. 

The scientific progress conquered the world, getting faster with every step. Daily – nay, hourly, by a minute, – a heavy boot of science smashed yet another mystery of nature. Every new puzzle solved only whetted appetite even further: how long before the next one is cracked? 

Even the high society was besotted by the science, and when you went to yet another reception, you'd better refresh your knowledge about some or other subject of generalia, so that you wouldn't get caught off your guard by some subtle witticism involving Darwin's theory. It was rumoured that one lord once got himself right embarrassed, having got fifth and sixth dynasties of pharaohs mixed. 

Homer and Ovid's characters no longer were all the rage. Now the multi-handed deities of India, slant-eyed demons of the Celestial Empire, Assyrian winged bulls with human faces and beastly gods of ancient Egypt – that was another matter entirely. Oh yes, Egypt, our common past, from where most of modern sciences and arts stemmed, oh those mystic rites, dark cults, magic philosophy and unconceivable skills of priest healers, of which Ozahar was considered the greatest… 

Dorian Gray walked hastelessly along a lengthy rack, filled with a range of vessels and bulbs, all tightly sealed and tidily marked, exactly as Campbell demanded when helping out with the set-up. It was him, in fact, from whom Gray first heard about priest Ozahar's research, the very one whose embalmment concoctions allowed to preserve bodies for ages.

…Once Alan proudly presented to his friend his latest trophy: a mummy he paid quite a sum for at an auction. A drawn shapeless skeleton, wrapped in layers of bandages, didn't instil anything but disgust in Gray, yet, yielding to the chemist's persuasion, not to mention a pang of his own curiosity, he agreed to witness revelation of the mummy

He still remembered a chilling sensation, getting ever more intense with every next coil of a cloth ribbon hitting the floor, torturous wait for the moment when dried out dark countenance would appear. And finally, low wide brow came out, two straight eyebrows crossing it, then longish eyes, tightly shut, on each side of a straight nose, yet another coil revealed a sharp line of the mouth and hard-set chin. The man, who was hardly past his thirties when the death struck, almost four thousand years ago, looked nearly as if he was merely asleep, and Dorian Gray, unable to help himself, made a step forward, to examine this incredible miracle up close.

"His name was To, meaning "lion", – Alan said quietly, pushing bandages aside, – and then he earned another name, Sudi, "The one favoured by good luck". A Fortune's darling, the best general of pharaoh Jemmurabi, fell in battle and was buried with great honour. Here, on the sarcophagus, his name is inscribed, complete with the registry of achievements. By the pharaoh's personal orders, Ozahar himself – the greatest healer of the era – was tasked with arranging the parting ceremony before his leaving to the land of the dead. You can see for yourself how great his mastery was…"

Alas, the miracle didn't last long – in a mere minute the impact of open air had destroyed the work of embalming art: the mummy on the table no longer look remotely like a warrior in his prime. It was but a crooked grey form. Never before was Gray so intensely horrified as he was witnessing this display of the ruthless power of time. 

Then Alan and he sat over a good old brandy, and the chemist told him how two years ago he came about an ancient scroll mentioning the priest Ozahar. The author was his disciple, who observed first-hand his mentor's improbable experiments, the amalgamation of science and magic.

Ancient Egyptians believed in the revival and the next phase of life. A pharaoh's birth and entire life were but a preparatory stage before the after-existence, where he was meant to still be a king and protector of his people. And, under the guidance of the greatest architects and priests, a crypt would be erected, in a very thoroughly selected place. Symbols covered its walls, describing the history and leaving directions for those who would arrive when the time came for the pharaoh to close his eyes to the earthly life but see the light of a faraway star permeating the pyramid. 

Meanwhile, Ozahar, the best of them all, sought another way, looking for the means to do more than just heal wounds or cure diseases: to make one invincible to the Time itself. The story went, he did find it, at the eve of his life. They whispered, he was still on his way, having tested the potion on himself and his apprentice, so they still wandered this world, unrecognised. Some insisted that Ozahar brought his elixir to the pharaoh, as a gift. The death would turn into a mere sleep, one step closer to the true resurrection, and in aeons, pharaoh would open his eyes once more and inhale the air to rise and follow the paths of a new world.

Dorian Gray looked at his friend, whose eyes burned brighter than the chimney fire, and thought about the chance to cheat the death itself…

He went about his own search then. Ancient Egyptian scrolls, inscriptions on the walls, lore and legends where at least a pittance of mention of Ozahar the priest was present, everything would do. But he was not as well versed in Egyptology as were Darnham and his friend Hamilton. Those two invariably, together or separately, were at the centre of any gathering, having come from yet another expedition, covered by tan through and through – perhaps, looking not that different from camel gadmen, – telling the stories about their finds, procured with their own hands, from the mud and sands, spinning the yarns about digging and mystic secrets, as if they witnessed the events themselves. Just the engagement for a nobleman, indeed. 

But Dorian kept his true feelings at bay, recognising Darnham's potential uses. 

And now he proved right! Pharaoh Jemmurabi, the guardian of Ozahar's secret, here in London, was just about to be displayed! 

At the centre of basement lab, a long dissecting table reigned supreme, neighboured by narrow wheeled table containing a set of medical tools, shining blindingly in the gas light. The smooth floor was covered by ornament comprised by magic formulae, as if all these ancient Egyptian writings were combined in a one gigantic super-sign. On the table itself, meanwhile, there was Jemmurabi's mummy, small and pitifully-looking in its current state, the sad remnants, never to be seen by London's fanciers of all things ancient.

The mummy's tissues had been lacerated mercilessly, checking with all possible reagents, inspecting with the mightiest of magnifiers, studying every inch and interpreting every symbol adorning the plain inner sarcophagus where the pharaoh found his final rest. Nothing doing. Even presuming that Ozahar did indeed discover the way to overcome death, pharaoh Jemmurabi failed to keep it safe. 

Dorian Gray sharply pulled a throw from the table nearby and covered the mummy: the sight of exsiccated remnants galled him. 

And just to think that this mummy was meant to become the star exhibit at a display, where gawking crowds would circle it, looking this way and that, getting horrified to their hearts' content. Was the ugliness the only thing to survive through centuries? 

Gray headed towards the library.

The fireplace burned brightly, freshly cut flowers from the conservatory filled fine Chinese vases loading the mantlepiece. A quaint Japanese desk was covered by books looking nonchalantly untogether in their old binds, ancient engravings peppered the walls. This small cosy room lined with tall oak panes, was Dorian's favourite and he often stayed late there, reading or pondering idly.

He settled into an armchair, looking deceptively relaxed and chain-smoked long thin cigarettes. Nikolae, his trusted servant, took the position on the floor beside his master.

Dorian enjoyed his dog-like devotion. He was exceedingly flattered by the thought of being able to instil such a faith in Nikolae, though from time to time he wondered, was there even a true awareness to this allegiance, or was it just a mere basic instinct, a natural reflex. On some days he wasn't even sure how deep was this attachment, and whether there was a chance that this creature would turn on its current lord, should it meet someone who might win more of its trust…

Nikolae, mixing up his English (especially verbs) told him, meanwhile, about his last night rendez-vous. 

"So, – Dorian drawled pensively, waving a cigarette he squeezed between the middle and index fingers, – it was Aurel, then?" He was a funny youth, was this Count, looked up to him, even started to tie his bow the same way. "And you are positive that he is a vampire?" 

"Strigoy, – Nikolae corrected his master coarsely, – we call these things Strigoy".

"Whatever", – Dorian agreed lightly, grinning inwardly. Amazing. These creatures, hardly all that different from animals themselves, both in looks and habits, had the nerve to call vampires "things"! 

"This one was but a whelp, but strong, two oxes like strong. I nearly, nearly got him!" – the changeling threw a hairy hand in the air, lengthened claws glinted in the lamp light. 

"A boy, – Dorian repeated. – Are not the vampires quite long-lived?"

"They can live for centuries. They know how to hide. They know how to wait out", – Nikolae spat out contemptuously. 

"This one hasn't lived for long, then?"

The werewolf sneered, a yellowish, crooked-toothed grin. 

"This one is but wet-behind-the-ears". 

"You dislike them so", – Dorian gave a low-voiced laugh. 

"Hate them!" – Nikolae hissed, leaving Dorian in no doubt about his servant's highly personal distaste towards the vampires. What came next, did nothing to dissuade him. "A strigoy slaughtered my family! A strigoy came this close to have me dead! A strigoy forced me to flee my native land! Strigoy hunt us like a quarry and we put them down like rats they are!" 

"You come from Hungary, if I am no mistaken, are you not?" – Dorian inquired. He easily left the armchair and came over to the desk where soda-filled siphon and silver drink cellaret were served for him. 

"From Bukovina, – Nikolae responded, following absorbedly his master's every move of hand as the latter deftly filled a crystal glass with wine. – My forefathers had lived in Karpaty's forests since the dawn of time. Ah, the beautiful fir woods of Vatra-Dorney…"

Dorian's hand with the glass froze before it reached his lips. He never saw his servant in such a melancholy. 

"Vatra what? – he asked. – I confess, I am not on a very good terms with geography".

"A town, that, – Nikolae explained, – close to the border with Transylvania, from where plague rained on us. This Transylvanian beast, as if burning and impaling human bastards was not enough for it!"

Transylvania it was, then. Dorian did hear this very name from Aurel. 

"He caught us, tortured us, skinned us!" – Nikolae boiled over, making Dorian sigh: the servant lost him there. 

"He who?" 

"Dracula!" – the shapeshifter barked and his teeth clattered. 

Now this name was not strange to Dorian. Though he was on a journey when this particular guest from Transylvania (here was this place again) appeared in London. Dorian was at the time so fed up with the London society, he just ran away and, contrary to his habits not to stay far from the city for a long time, spent in Italy almost half a year, looking at murals, wineyards, noble ruins and olive complexion of the heirs of Great Roman Empire. At the time he reached San Remo, Dorian soon realised he felt pressured by the foreign air of a strange city. He was happy to come back home, which in turn met him with a heap of gossip and rumours about brief yet memorable visit by the outlandish count. Yes, he was a count, was he not…

"Dracula, then, – Dorian drawled, admiring the dance of light flecks around the crystal. – I take it, you know him?" 

"I fought him! – Nikolae put his disproportionately long hands around his own shoulders. – I was young then. My kin decided to take our revenge on Dracula. We surrounded the castle, we howled, challenging him to a fight. He stood there on a wall and laughed at us. Then he emerged. It was a massacre! I see him tear my kinsmen apart, and still I threw myself at him. He threw me away in seconds. I hit something and blacked out. When I came to, I saw him. He stood over me and gloated. He stank with blood and death. I looked into his eye and took flight. I couldn't bear his gaze! I run, and run, and run, and run… I lived in Moravia, then moved over to Bohemia. I hid in Sudets, made it through to the Alps…. I was close to death when I met you, my master". Nikolae drew closer to him and nestled his head in Dorian's soft slippers. Gray shuddered and, in a reflex move, got his feet away from him. The werewolf still held his head down, his breath fast and shallow. Dorian felt something like a pity panging his heart. He raised his hand to touch his servant's round shoulder, but never completed the move, just went on silently sipping his wine. 

"So, the vampires are dangerous", – he observed in some while.

"Not young ones, – Nikolae responded, drawing himself together again. – They got stronger, craftier with time. My brethren can live for long, much longer then humans, times longer, but strigoi… If this thing doesn't die young, it can live… forever!"

Dorian froze again, smoothness of his white brow blemished by a frown. "Does one have to be born a vampire… a strigoy? – he finally asked. – Or is it possible for a human to become one?"

Nikolae gave a barking laugh, throwing his ugly head back.

Dorian rubbed his brow with his fingers.

There was a knock on the door. Francis entered and proffered a letter on silver tray. Dorian jerked his chin, silently commanding the werewolf to stay quiet. "Go, – he said to him. – I will need you afterwards". 

Nikolae, rocking on his feet, rose and darted towards the door, nearly brushing against the valet; the latter curled his lip with contempt, but immediately put the expression of impeccable deference back on. 

The note was signed, who could think it, by Aurel himself. He acquired a house and was asking Mr Gray, a renowned man of high taste and sense of style, to be so kind to help him with choosing the right set of colours for his future reception hall. Dorian folded the noted. His finely outlined nostrils quivered, scarlet lips twisted in barely concealed triumphant grin, eyes turned dark in excitement. The valet stole a look at him and shook his head almost imperceptibly: he could hardly remember seeing his master in such an agitation. 

* * *

Two days later they met.

Having pulled his cape off, Gray lingered for a moment: among the etchings hanged on the walls, he was surprised to recognise some eau fortes from Goya's Capriccios. No doubt, it was one of Transylvanian Count's little whims. He could hardly believe that the mansion's previous owners – quite respectable Englishmen, judging by the looks of the building – would choose to meet their guests with depictions of human vices and misapprehensions. Gray's lips curled in a grin again: it didn't look like the Count needed any additional advice as far as decorations were concerned. He certainly had his own taste – overly eccentric for claim on perfection, but such extravagance was exactly the right way to become popular in the society.

"Over here, sir, please", – screeched a servant, whatever the heck his name was, oh yes, Igor, who Gray couldn't help but pity every time he looked at him. A strange land, this Transylvania, he thought detachedly, following Igor into the music room. Extremities only, no half-measures there at all. A place which spawned both strigoi, the closest thing there was to perfection... and the ugly beasts like Nikolae or this wretched parody of a human being… 

A light angular room with French windows, converted by the Count into a music salon, was found by Gray entirely to his taste. There was just enough glamour to impress, to show off the owner's riches without overdoing it, staying short off the border between the glamour and kitsch. The pianoforte was conspicuous by its absence, though: its place was taken by a wonderful masterpiece of a Japanese tea platen, marking the grand location. The setting, the furniture, the paintings (respectable throughout in this case), in a word, everything, was arranged so that the instrument would form the centrepiece and focus of attention. Why, Gray noted, what a daring choice to set out the scene without the main character in the picture. There was, after all, no telling how the hero would blend in upon arrival…

He ran his fingers over music sheets, tidily distributed around the table: Brahms, Schumann, Strauss... and made a mental note to ask the Count whether such was his own musical tastes, or was it just taking the accepted trend into account. 

"It is gratifying to meet you, Mr Gray", – came in a rustle over his ear. A sheet of music he was about to turn over, fluttered slightly.

"I decline invitations quite often, but never come uninvited", – Gray did not look up from the Chopin's waltz. 

"What a coincidence", – corners of Aurel's mouth went up. His hair was combed back, revealing a high, clear brow. "Neither would I ever dare to take such a liberty". And, almost without a beat, he noted: "I saw you in Harrods two days ago". 

"Nowadays, everyone comes to Harrods, it seems. Should you need to have an urgent talk with someone you know, – Gray put the music sheets away, – you have to look either in a club, or in Harrods". He laughed in his particular quiet way, which worked its spell equally on men and women, no one escaping being charmed. Aurel didn't prove an exception. As if under a touch of light brush, his pale skin glowed with an aquarelle blush. 

"Forgive my manners, – Aurel suddenly caught himself, under the intent glance by Gray. – I will order the drinks to be served right now".

Not without some researcher's pleasure at a smoothly-going test, Gray followed the Count's tall, lanky figure with his eyes until his disappearance behind the door, then went back to the music sheets. Before he had time to get bored, Aurel returned to the music room, at the same lightning speed as he left.

"Allow me to offer you a little tour around the house", – he smiled widely. Gary's beady eyes missed neither the glimmer of revealed fangs nor the "angel's kiss" on the chin (almost imperceptible during the times when the Count kept straight face).

"At your service, sir, – he smiled back. – Oh, but where is the piano, then, may I ask?"

The Count, a second ago the etiquette himself, strictly letting the guest go first, immediately forgot all the code of ceremonious conduct and took Gray by the elbow, using the free hand to show the direction. 

"It would be so nice of you to help me make the right choice, – he lifted his chin and looked at Gray coyly from under his rich eyelashes. – I have a confession to make: I am not that proficient in all things musical. I received an offer of a brand new Steinway, fresh from New York, they say. Or I can have a Bluthner, coming from Germany, due to arrive in days".

"Which option sounds more attractive to you?"

"I truly can't say. Papa has a Bluthner in his library, but it's been buried under all the books for ages. I honestly can't remember when was the last time it was played, and by whom. Certainly not by me. I am a follower of music but only as long as I am in the audience, Mr Gray. And only in so far, – he graced his companion with another from-under-the-lashes glance, – as a true master is at the instrument". 

"That is, you'd rather use a piano as a book stand?" – Gray, going along with the Count's wishes, looked over the ball room, the dining hall and a small room adjacent to it, for which a purpose hadn't been appropriated yet (it seemed to had been a smoking area before). Not without some annoyance, Gray realised that he still couldn't take the lead in their conversation. 

"Ah yes, papa's library is extensive and he's passionate about extending it even further. Our winters are long and severe, Mr Gray. We go for books in search of warmth of friendship and light others get from sunny days". This was said in a tone of voice Gray hadn't heard from the Count before: suddenly, but for a split second, he noticed the feeling there which more than a mere wistfulness: a real, genuine longing.

"So you came to London yearning for some authentic communication?"

"Yearning… yes…"– Aurel drawled.

They reached the reception which also reflected the tastes of its new owner. Igor (or whatever his name was), tray in hand, was there, mucked around with cutlery and muttered something in his native tongue. The Count sent him away and gestured towards a seat near the fireplace. He poured the wine himself. It emanated a sweet, spice aroma. 

"It is… forralt bor, – Aurel explained. – A spice-filled wine, forgive me for not knowing the English name for it. It is the drink of my native land".

"For a long severe winter?" – Gray supposed. Aurel smiled and offered the guest a glass, while leaning back on the table, clasping his own glass with both palms.

"Are you missing your home?" – Gray asked.

"But of course, – Aurel nodded. – It's the first time in a long, long time since I left my ancestors' house for more than a short while".

"You are so homebound?" 

"More like bound to papa's will. Now he is a homebody by nature. Or at least he had been until recently". The Count smiled again, and in one imperceptible movement appeared in the armchair opposite to Gray's. "What about you? I heard, you had been travelling a lot". 

"And yet came back here every time".

"As if by magic? Papa also said that I would like it here. I didn't like the idea at first, but he insisted, and now I am starting to think he was right to begin with. But why, you are not drinking at all! Please do".

Dorian Gray was in no hurry. Pretending to be completely immersed in watching soft colours in the glass at gentle play, he mulled over what he just heard. When looking up, he met Aurel's eye and caught a glimmer of hurt in there. 

"Don't you like it?"

"Far as I can see, you hadn't touched it either…" 

Aurel made a show of putting his glass to his lips, without taking his eyes off Gray over the rim. The other did exactly the same. The wine turned out rather hot, burning Gary's throat and proceeding down the stomach as some kind of fiery lava. For a moment Gray felt like losing his mind. A treacherous thing, this "forol't bor", as Count called it, Dorian just must get his hands on the recipe, no question about it. Tasted a bit like a mulled wine, but Igor apparently added some Transylvanian herbs into the mix, or maybe it was their renowned cayenne… The next mouthful went easier and gave Gray back his clarity of mind, but now he felt strangely weak, as if chained. Barely able to hold the glass, he leaned back in his armchair. Aurel, meanwhile, got up, slithered along the table and Gray found him up close, running his fingers along the arm of the guest's chair. Gray followed the fine, perfectly manicured, long-nailed fingers' movement with his eyes, unable to so much as stir. The fingers got up the velvet upholstery, then flew over to his neck. He felt the cold of this touch, and, compelled by those the fingertips, consumed by sheer horror, he tilted his head to one side. Aurel drew even nearer – Gray sensed his light breathing on his skin. Slanting his eyes, he saw the fangs dangerously close. For a second or two both of them remained motionless.

"So, how do you like my humble dwellings?" – he Count asked in an amicably social tone, suddenly in his armchair again, delicately drying his lips with a laced handkerchief. 

"Hard as I try, I couldn't call it humble", – Gray replied, making an effort to sound calm and level and keep his back straight. His own fingers still trembled and he clutched the chair's arm with one hand and the glass' stalk with another. He didn't dare to make another sip, partly to prevent his teeth from giving him away by uncontrolled clattering, partly because he now appreciated the treachery of the Transylvanian drink only too well.   
"You flatter me. Nevertheless, I sense that the house lacks… – the Count hobbled, searching for the right word, -… certain nuances".

"With this, I can help you, – Gray said. – I happen to know quite an expert in… nuances, though he charges an indecent fee for both the toys and the service". 

The Count just waved this away. "You simply don't know the charming Mr Segal, the keeper of an inn in a small village nearby our castle. Now he gives the whole new meaning to the words "indecent fee". 

Gray looked at Aurel's demonstrably exasperated shake of the head and couldn't help but laugh, if a tad nervously. Aurel joined in his laughter.

Igor, who had been polishing the candlesticks outside the room for a good 15 minutes already, sighed, looked at his reflection in the metal stand and proceeded with his work.


	11. Discovery

Having adjusted her bracelet, put over a delicate silk glove, in front ot the mirror, Irene noticed a flicker of a movement out of the corner of her eye and looked back in a haste. Yes, she was right – Aurel, exuding clouds of perfume, with the freshest of fresh button in his buttonhole, was all glitter and parade, gleaming fair hair combed tightly back and tied with a silk black ribbon. She was badly tempted to check his reflection – or rather lack thereof – in the mirror again, but she overcame the urge and held out her hand for a kiss instead, smiling the best of her alluring smiles. 

"You are enchanting, my lady", – Aurel said with all sincerity, slightly caressing the elegant curve of her neck, alabaster shoulders and within-reason-revealing descoltez with his eyes. 

"Your home is wonderful, – Irene replied, – so spacious yet cosy". 

The Count blushed and, with excitement, characteristic for young people, fresh out of family nest, went into detail about where he procured this or that piece of furniture, painting or a quaint trinket necessary for the completion of the set, carelessly dropping prices of astronomical proportions over his chatter. Irene smiled at him, nodded and put in a word or two, while glancing over other guests.

What a charming chamber reception, "just for friends" – trust Aurel to point this out – just 20 or 30 guests, quite enough to celebrate the maiden homecoming. There appeared to be no specific criteria to Aurel's choice of the visitors, as if he went entirely on whim. They made up strange combinations, but, it had to be said, the talk never ceased, the company finding one common subject of interest after another while the servants offered light snacks and appetizers around. 

"Do you intend to move to London for good?" – Irene piped in as the Count paused in his monologue. 

"Why would you think so?" – Aurel was genuinely surprised.

"You have got yourself a house, servants as well…"

"Oh! So you did notice, after all! – Irene was surprised too at the slight hint of a mockery to her interlocutor's voice. – Well, it is an English house, and that requires true English servants, don't you think?" Once Irene had nodded her agreement, he went on: "To be frank, it was Igor who insisted on valets and housemaids being brought in. My own needs are really rather basic…" It took Irene a light cough and her little fingers being pressed against her lips to contain herself from laughing out loud at that particular declaration. Under the glance of Aurel, she did her best to look as serious as best she could. "But yes, my needs are really modest! Igor manages quite well, he's a wonderful porter, valet, secretary and whatever else there might be a necessity of. But it would be inappropriate for the guests to be served by him alone, today, for example, would it not? 

Irene coughed again and assured the Count that yes, in a truly English home servants always come aplenty, and his choice of valets, so well-disciplined at that, was excellent. She took it, the cook was also of his own personal hiring?

"Indeed! A very stern woman, widowed now, her spouse fell in some or other fight in Transvaal. Imagine this, she dares to contradict me! – Aurel clacked his tongue, which might equally be an expression of indignation or admiration. – Nevertheless, it seems she does know her way about cooking, at least, Igor values her skills quite highly". 

"And you do trust his opinion", – there was nothing ironic to Irene's tone of voice this time.

"Yes, – Aurel nodded earnestly. – He… he has always been kind to me. In fact, he's the only human being I can say this of".

It was then that Irene suddenly saw, with absolute clarity, that the one she was speaking to – however old he might be in years passed – was but a boy, forced to keep his true nature from anyone and everyone, and understood only by his old servant, to whom it apparently mattered not whether the Count was a vampire or human – he would stay loyal to him, come heck or high water. For the first time in all the period of their acquaintance, it occurred to Irene to wonder if the Count had a mother, was she still alive, and, if so, what kind of woman was she? A loving parent? Or perhaps, a severe grand matron? 

"I take it, – Aurel's voice shook her out of her reverie, – you happen to know lord Darnham? – He gestured towards a new visitor at the hall. – I invited him specifically for you".

"For me? – Irene looked at the Count in amazement. – How do you mean, pray?"

"Forgive me, – Aurel looked slightly embarrassed, – looks like I said something ambivalently-sounding again. I did not mean anything inappropriate. It is just… I do not know the lord that well, less than I would like to, and they say, his knowledge in all things related to Egyptology – and more – is extensive. At the same time, I was afraid that other guests would not be up to your standards of worthy and interesting enough to talk to. Therefore…"

"I thank you, Count, – Irene bowed her head slightly, – you have been an extremely kind host. Go to your guests now, though, you wouldn't like to make them think you value some visitors more than you do others, would you?" 

Irene took a glass of champagne from a tray carried by passing valet. What a good fortune it was that the Count, a little go-between, went ahead with this particular invitation! After all, Irene did promise Professor Van Helsing he would speak to the lord. The celebratory mood of the evening, decent champagne and overall ambience looked exactly right for a little discreet talk.

Irene saw the Professor a day before. He sent her a request of a meeting, and the young woman responded immediately confirming that she was willing to meet him anywhere appropriate, from one to five o'clock. 

…He had been waiting for her in a comfortable little restaurant opposite the Berlington Street Passage Arcade, killing time by leafing through some book. Gift-wrapped boxes were piling up on a chair nearby.

"Oh, that… – the Professor grinned with a crafty look in response to her silent question, once they exchanged greetings and made their respective orders. – I did some shopping at the Arcade. Christmas is nigh, after all".

"Such a timely reminder from you, Professor! – Irene exclaimed. – I got so carried away with vampire stories and lore, I forgot the passage of seasons completely! But forgive me, I'm babbling. You wanted to talk about something, I take it."

"Let us first pay this marvellous beef steak its just due, – the Professor suggested. – It will be more appropriate to make any request at the time of desserts. Have you heard the latest news from the British Museum?"

"Nothing more than this attempt by someone on the poor dear pharaoh, – Irene responded cautiously. – I take it, you know more?"

"I was there, mere hours later than the criminals came. Saw the devastation first hand. Lord Hamilton and Lord Darnham are inconsolable".

"Oh dear", – Irene frowned. The Professor described what he witnessed in concise but colourful manner, omitting only the part about the rat cut open, considering, quite reasonable, the details like that not fit for fine ladies' ears, and the poor creature was beyond help anyway.

"I conduct an investigation on behalf of lord Hamilton, and must admit that neither he, nor lord Darnham are not proving much help in establishing the truth.

"Indeed, – Irene grinned. – Why am I not surprised?"  
"They can talk about any of the stolen exhibits forever, but, alas, I can't get a word out of them about anything else. In particular, – Professor paused a bit, his attention briefly distracted by gold-lit potatoes, – they are surprisingly united in keeping quiet about the financing".

"But how does it relate to pharaoh?"

"I won't tire you with a string of logical conclusions. Cui bono, cui prodest, they say. Look for those benefiting. The latest Egypt expedition was undertaken by our mutual friend lord Darnham entirely on his own volition. Moreover, the management was much in favour of sending the lord to Afghanistan with a mission – Augustus Franks, the British Museum Curator, insisted on it himself. In other words, this particular expedition was not planned by the museum, even if the latter gratefully accepted all the finds. Even at our first meeting, the lord mentioned as an aside that the search for the pharaoh Jemmurabi's crypt was paid for by a certain kind donor whose name I was never trusted with. It appears that this mysterious benefactor was modest enough to set up large-scale archaeological digging with the sole purpose of enriching the funds of British Museum, without getting anything in return, not even a honorary mention and public gratitude".

"I see, – Irene said slowly, as if thinking something over. – You believe that this generous someone organised the mission with some personal hidden agenda, don't you? I think, you are right. Lord Darnham, as we chatted once, noted that the importance of the discovery was too great to be allowed to stay in possession or a one private person… To tell you the truth, I didn't dwell much on that at the time…"

"Someone insistently influenced lord Darnham in order to get him to go after pharaoh Jemmurabi, lured him with the idea, equipped his Egypt mission, all the time waiting patiently for the result. It does not seem likely this someone was all that happy with the prospect to just admire the mummy at British Museum's exhibition hall".

"There is that slight possibility of the stolen treasures falling in the mundane hands of a regular robber, – the young woman smiled, – but I understand, it is highly unlikely, is it not? Why would a robber need a mummy?"

"In Egypt, they use them for fuel, – Van Helsing informed her with a grin. – And in a cold climate like here, you never know, anything can happen… Oh, the dessert is coming", – he welcomed the new course arrival. Having waited until his companion had time to fully appreciate the taste of fruit parfait and go over to the tea, he said tactfully: "Our long time of acquaintance and your high intelligence and insight allow me to forego all the beating around the bush. I would most appreciate it, my dear Miss Adler, if you would find a way to clarify it with lord Darnham – to whose spouse, as I know, you had been introduced, – whether or not he can remember the name of the mysterious wealthy donor who invested into the expedition."

"But of course, – Irene didn't even hesitate. – I meant to suggest it myself. I am always here for you, and you know why".

The Professor's warm palm slightly squeezed Irene's in gratitude, and he smiled at her paternally. 

…Lord Darnham felt Irene's gaze and immediately came over. They exchanged polite bows and a few obligatory phrases about weather and the lord's esteemed lady, who, alas, could not make it to the reception. While Irene thought over the most appropriate form in which one could address the Egyptologist about a discreet financial matter, a slight commotion happened among the guests, and there was no need to guess who was the centre of it – Mr Dorian Gray, who else.

He looked almost indecently fresh. Gracing the present company with amicable smiles left and right, he went straight to the homeowner to express his utmost admiration, etc., etc. To be blunt, Irene would much rather watch Gray's movements than hold conversation with lord Darnham, but she suddenly caught the latter at observing Gray himself, quite intently at that – with an expression that could hardly be called amicable. Getting a wind of a possible dramatic developments in the making, Irene decided on keeping both gentlemen in her sights. 

"Mr Gray! – Aurel didn't even try to conceal his delight at Dorian's appearance. – Much obliged with your visit, much obliged! Come here, please, I need to show you something! Ladies and gentlemen, – he turned to the rest of the visitors, – be kind to grace me with your attention, please! I would like to show you a pretty little something which I acquired to add to the interior".

He clapped his hand in a theatrical gesture. "Show-off", – Irene thought, nevertheless looking around for the named acquisition not without some curiosity. That was when the doors to the hall had swung open and two valets, with a great care, carried in something clearly rather heavy, covered with a white cloth. A third valet followed them, high narrow stand in his hands. On the Count's gesture, the stand was placed between two windows and the mysterious object was loaded upon it. Aurel glanced around the audience, frozen in anticipation, and tore the throw away. A wave of surprised and adoring sighs went through the rows of ladies and gentlemen, consuming the entire hall.

"My goat!" – lord Darnham breathed with a groan, as if pinned to the ground. 

And the golden goat it was, well and truly, the very same, far as Irene could tell, that lord Hamilton showed her not so long ago. Each guest took their turn to appreciate the "little something" properly. Irene, too, having waited for the crown around Aurel to thin, came around to express her excitement. Lord Darnham was next to dash to the scene. 

"Sir! – he exclaimed, addressing directly to the Count. – May I ask how did you come about this object?"

"It was delivered to me from an antiquities shop two days ago", – Aurel, the pleasantness himself, ran his fingers along the finely carved feathers of the goat's left wing. 

"Be caref…!" – Lord Darnham raised his hand warningly, then cut himself short at the puzzled look from the Count. "Apologies, milord, I understand how odd my behaviour might look, but let me explain. You see, this is a priceless example of late Sumerian artwork, which happens to have been impudently stolen from the British Museum".

"What a shame", – the Count replied indifferently, leaving any onlooker in no doubt that he didn't care about the Museum, robbery or all Sumerians put together, one little squat.

"Exactly, – Lord Darnham raised his voice a bit. – The entire corps of the London Police is looking for this goat, and by some uncanny miracle it turns out in your possession!"

"How do you mean?" – Aurel smiled charmingly.

"I request, nay, demand that the exhibit is returned to the museum!"

Irene looked back stealthily. The ever more emotional conversation clearly drew much too much attention for comfort. 

"My lords, – she touched Aurel's elbow with her fingertips, – perhaps, now is not the time for such discussions?" 

"Why not? – Aurel threw back his head. – After all, I am being accused, no less, of… how does one put it in English… being an accomplice to a criminal activity!"

"God no", – lord Darnham threw his hands in the air and also looked around quietly. 

"I repeat, sir, I bought the statuette in a shop of antiquities, – Aurel said. – If the British Museum needs it that badly, I can sell it to you. May the money, at least, sweeten me the pain of parting with this wonderful animal".

"How much would you want for it, then?" – Lord Darnham dried his sweating brow with a handkerchief. The Count whispered something into his ear in response.

"Are you joking? – the Egyptologist looked back at him, abated. – No, worse than that, you are positively jeering!"

Irene took lord Darnham decisively by the hand and all but dragged him away from the wretched goat. She then left the poor man in the care of Sir William Cavendish, who immediately made the Egyptologist to drink a full glass in one go, and hurried back to Aurel.

"Do you not feel even a modicum of pity towards him?" – she smiled, and the young man smiled in response. 

"I might, a little bit, – he admitted, – but not to the point of giving up this exhibit. It did cost me a small fortune, that much is true".

"Where did you manage to buy it, then?"

"I will tell you the address of the shop, – the Count promised. – You do have to visit this place, it is an Ali Baba treasure cave, indeed. Mr Gray recommended it to me, and my, was he ever right to do so".

Irene looked for the aforementioned Mr Gray. The latter, a glass in his hand, was talking to the Duchess of Devonshire, a young beauty who happened to be married to Sir William. Gray clearly enjoyed the evening, the company, the wine, his eyes were gleaming, scarlet lips curled in a smile once and again – there was not a trace of that feigned melancholy he shrouded himself in when they met last time. 

"Strictly between us, – Irene lowered her voice, – the statuette was, indeed, stolen".

"To repay the truth with the truth, – Aurel touched his lips with his little finger, adorned with a golden ring, bending it a little, – that does not bother me in the slightest".

Irene had to hide shadow of laughter on her face behind an open fan. 

"But I should have throw him out", – the Count added, looking at lord Darnham. This time, the point of the latter's anger was Dorian Gray, standing nearby with his arms folded and lips twisted in sarcastic grin. 

"By all things unholy", – lord Darnham snapped, offering Irene his hand. The way his eyes were glistening, he added at least one more glass to the one sir William made him drink. "Imagine that, Gray is a dishonourable man!"

"Impossible!" – Irene was genuinely surprised.

"And yet, true! He refuses to pay, breaching his own obligations!"

"To pay? For what?"

"Of all impudence! – Lord Darnham clearly missed the question altogether. – He says, no pharaoh, no fee!"

"Pharaoh?"

"Yes, dammit! Forgive my language, my lady. Now he did pay, and handsomely at that, for all the digging, but there is one more unsigned cheque, and Mr Gray wouldn't sign it. All just because some insolent stooped to stealing the pharaoh!"

Irene patted lord Darnham's hand with some soothing words, and pleaded with him to keep calm and exercise the famous English restraint. The attention he drew already was more than enough, was it not?

Lord Darnham was pointedly quiet all the time of supper, though it didn't stop him from trying every dish served. Aurel was right about one thing: Igor found a wonderful cook. Why, Irene herself wouldn't mind getting her hands on the recipe of those crispy chocolate cakes. Dorian Gray was seated opposite, and she was free to appreciate his fine musical fingers, handling the cutlery in a way one would treat a dangerous weapon demanding extreme skills and agility of approach. At the end of the meal, when dessert arrived, Gray gentlemanly served her with a china plate full of tropical fruit. The movement briefly revealed a so far concealed cuff, and it took Irene all her presence of mind not to give her true reaction away. She barely remembered the rest of the evening, seeing everything as if through some kind of mist. Excusing herself with a headache, she was among the first to leave. 

Before she went to sleep, Irene wrote to the Professor Van Helsing and instructed the housemaid to see to it that the note went off the first thing in the morning.


	12. Mask of a demon

Climbing the front stairs, Irene Adler was entirely sure that she was expected at the house in Westwick Gardens. Indeed, she barely had time to knock on the door before it opened wide. It was hard to see anything in half-darkness of the entrance corridor. Irene left her coat and hat in someone's hands.

"Is Professor Van Helsing in?" – she asked.

"Follow me", – a man's voice said politely.

The twilight condensed into a tall skinny silhouette with a black face. At first, Irene thought she saw someone hailing from Sudan or Ivory Coast, which would also explain a thick French overtone. But a moment later she realised that the stranger's face was simply covered with a solid black piece of cloth, complete with two eye-slits. More intrigued than scared, Irene followed the "mask" into Professor's study.

" Van Helsing was distracted by a matter of utmost urgency. In his absence, I represent him here. You may call me Eric", – with that, an odd masked man smoothly sat down in an armchair and invited Irene with a gesture to take the one opposite him. She had no other options left than to sit as well.

"Now you can relay your case to me", – Eric said.

"I thank you, , – Irene replied, adding, – Will I be wrong in assuming that 's native tongue is French?"

"No, Madame is not wrong, – Eric shook his head. – Still, I would rather speak the much-lauded here Shakespeare's language when in England. I need to practice more", – he added.

"Oh so. Tell me, Sir, is Mr Jonathan Harker out as well?" 

"Alas, Madame". 

"This is strange, I did, after all, receive a note from the Professor…"

"An utmost urgency matter, Madame", – Eric reminded. He swished away from the table some invisible breadcrumbs, drilling through Irene with his eyes of an unsettling yellowish tint. She felt awkward and, in order to thaw the atmosphere, asked: "So, you work for Mr Van Helsing, I understand?"

"I complete discreet tasks, – the tone of this response discouraged Irene from voicing another question, begging to be asked. – What about you, Madame? Can it be that you are looking for a next job – and that after La Scala? Then again, why not. After giving up La Scala for the Warsaw Opera… and worse still…" 

"Do we know each other?" – Irene's throat went dry in an instant.

"Like there could not be found a single person in London who would remember your debut in La Traviata…"

"I must confess, it has been so long ago, I can barely remember anything…"

"Now truer words could not be spoken, – Eric piped in sarcastically. – I heard your singing of today. Your breathing technique went down south along with anything you ever remembered about Italy".

"You are forgetting yourself", – Irene replied icily. For some short while they looked each other into the eye, and, it must be noted, it was Eric who was outstared. 

"I do have to admit, – he sighed, – you are not too shabby for someone who hasn't practiced for a long period of time".

"Are you an expert?" – Irene laughed malignantly. 

"I just dislike amateurs", – Eric said.

"I take it, our world is rather harsh on you".

"At least, I have a job. Even two, for that matter".

Where this exchange of barbs might lead, remained unchecked – the tug of verbal war was cut short by the entrance of Professor Van Helsing.

"Kindly accept my humble apologies for being late, Miss Adler, – he said, kissing her hand. – Our mutual friend Lord Hamilton insisted on seeing me, whatever the weather". 

"Any news?" – Irene was eagerly interested.

"Alack a day, he just gave me this", – Professor put a folder on the table. It proved to contain some photographs. Eric leaped from his chair and, settling down at the table's edge, started to study the pictures. Van Helsing took his place – or rather, returned to the one which was his to begin with. 

"Well, my dear Miss Adler, I am all ears, – he said. Taking heed of Irene's rather expressive glance, he went on: – You may speak freely. Eric assists me with my investigation".

"To the points, then, – Irene nodded. – I managed to find out – by a pure accident, I admit, – who sponsored the Lord Darnham's expedition".

"Well, well, well!"

"It was Mr Dorian Gray". The Professor's eyebrows shot up in a genuine amazement. "Yesterday, Lord Darnham accused Mr Gray of… certain financial wrongdoings, due to the fact that Mr Gray, on the grounds of Jemmurabi's mummy, refuses to pay Lord Darnham's bills". 

"I wouldn't either, any of…" – Eric muttered under his breath.

"Secondly, – Irene went on, pretending not to hear a thing, – our young Transylvanian friend purchased a statuette, which happens to be the one stolen from the Museum days ago". She produced a piece of paper, folded in four, from her handbag. "The Count was kind enough to give me the whereabouts of antiquities' shop he found it in". 

"A statuette?" – Eric verified, and showed Irene a photograph picturing a winged goat. The young woman nodded. Eric handed the picture to Van Helsing.

"The Count said that he was directed to the shop by…" – she paused significantly, and the Professor, leaning back in the armchair, completed the sentence: "Mr Dorian Gray".

"Yes", – Irene bit her lip. Her fingers went nervously from patting her ridicule's cloth to smoothening creases on her skirt and back again.

"My dear Miss Adler, – the Professor rose from the table and sat on the sofa beside Irene, – what is it that seems to bother you?"

"I saw something yesterday. It was not meant for anybody's eyes, just yet another accident. Mr Dorian Gray…"

There was an imperceptible movement from Eric, as if his fingers tightened a noose on someone's neck, perhaps. The Professor shook his head reproachfully, and the assistant for discreet tasks remained silent.

"Mr Dorian Gray, – Irene continued decisively. – Yesterday I saw a tattoo on his cuff, which, if I remember correctly, was not there at our previous meeting at Lady Maude's. I won't bet on it, but I think so. You know this ornament as well as I do, Professor. You saw it on the hands of my… my husband, Godfrey Norton". 

"My God", – Van Helsing whispered.  
"I haven't had any sleep, – Irene confessed. – I kept thinking, could it be that the whole ordeal is starting all over again…"

"Just do not panic, – Van Helsing said, taking Irene by hand firmly. – Now that we are so much in the know, we are better prepared, better armed". 

Irene was nodding without looking up.

"Come now, my brave girl, – Van Helsing grinned, – you are not afraid, are you?"

"Don't think so, – Irene replied, after a slight hesitation. – But… still, I am wary".

"Have faith in me. And, of course, in Jonathan. You do trust us, don't you?"

"After everything you did for me, Professor? Can you even doubt it?" – Irene was genuinely indignant. 

"No, of course not", – Van Helsing laughed softly and got up from the sofa. Irene followed his example.

"I will waste no more of your time, Professor, – she held out her hand. – Promise me to visit soon".

"Naturally", – Van Helsing bowed and escorted Irene to the front door.

Back at the study, he paused a bit on the threshold, rocking from heel to toe, then stepped purposely to the shelves and took several books off.

Eric, who already tidied the photographs away to the folder – all but one which he carefully pocketed in his jacket – said: "I could visit Antiquities Trader. I know where his shop is, a quiet hideaway, I passed it once or twice".

"Will you exercise caution?" – Professor asked, knowing full well that Eric and caution were mutually exclusive. 

"I solemnly swear to try", – came rustling from under the mask. 

"Go then. I take it, you know which questions should be asked". 

"Quite so, and I will do my best to ask them fully in compliance with English grammar rules", – Eric assured, disappearing behind the door.

* * *

Showing the last client of the day to the exit, Mr Jacob Lockhead bolted the shop's door and moved on to his study – this proud name was assigned to a chair near the bureau desk, where some not exceedingly valuable papers and record books were kept. Those records were meant for official authorities. As for the deals with a more shadowy type of figures, all details of those, including agreements and amounts involved in these cases the trader preferred not to trust paper with. Here, he relied entirely on his memory.

A quill brusquely swished across the paper, leaving a tidy, rounded row of letters and figures, making up the sum total of the day. This task, rather boring, if necessary, created an according mood, one of preparation for a well-earned rest.

Mr Lockhead, much like owners of other shops, situated nearby in the Old Bond Street, noted a significant sales' rise as the winter holidays neared. As usual, nice old souvenirs proved extremely popular as gifts or just decorations. Shelves in front room of the shop were positively peppered with those. More discerning and expert clients were allocated relics fresh out of yet another archaeological diggings, or, if a wealthy customer already set his eyes on something, special expeditions were arranged. Practically each special delivery resulted in a scandal, high or not so high profile, but almost invariably related to this or that museum: by some uncanny reason these institutions didn't see it as appropriate that the outcome of archaeological tours they financed had to be then additionally paid for – quite handsomely at that – to get the finds out of private collections. It was rumoured that the management of British Museum was close to taking quite drastic measures to put an end to leaking the treasures out of its recesses, which rumours added not a small amount of mirth in Mr Lockhead's life. 

Having finished daily calculations and put the final dot at the end of the last record, the trader hid the diary in a drawer and thought that today it would probably prove wise to go to bed early.

Anticipating the much-longed-for rest already, he got up… just in time to see the door open, letting in a tall man in a long dark coat, wrapped into a chequered scarf up to his eyes, long woollen tails dangling behind his back, and in a low-set wide-brimmed hat. The latecomer made several steps forward and stopped, looking around curiously. 

Mr Lockhead did not feel any fear. Over his long career he came to get accustomed to dealing with types like this, and by now it would be a fruitless task to try and find in entire London anyone stupid enough to trespass on this particular trader's property. Certainly not alone – and certainly not at a time like this, when his blood-freezing servants were firmly on guard. As for those who just had arrived to the capital city of the Empire, thus not being fully aware of all the rules of conduct, well, an eloquent lesson was always on hand when needed. It had to be said for the teachers, there was never any need for more than one such lesson. To students' sheer misfortune, though, very few of them could put the received knowledge to any use, once reaching the Thames' bottom. 

A servant froze in a corner like a statue, waiting for the master's orders or any movement from the visitor that could be seen as a threat. The trader himself just grinned. 

"I am afraid we are already closed, Sir", – he said mildly.

"But the door was not locked", – the visitor replied. His voice, thick in foreign tilt, was muffed by even thicker layer of a cloth. 

"Not true, Sir, – Mr Lockhead shook his head. – I bolted it myself".

"Not too well, though, – now the strange man's voice was brimming with laughter. – A child could unlock this one".

The antiquities trader took it as an attempt to impress. Many such sorts came through his backdoor, full of brash bragging, intent on selling their wares for as high a price as possible. He could easily bet on the true purpose of this visit being on the brink of revealing itself. Perhaps, Mr Lockhead even would deign to hear the man out before giving servants the sign. 

"Are you interested in buying something? – he inquired coolly. – Or in selling something?"

"Neither, – the visitor shook his head. – I am interested in asking you a few questions, , and in getting those answered". 

"You do not look like a policeman at all".

"Extremely astutely observed". 

The trader, without another word, nodded to a servant and strode towards the next room. By the time it would take him to cover this short distance, the latecomer would be dead, and the servants won't need instructions on how to get rid of the corpse. It was not their first time.

Lockhead's servant much resembled an exotic bird in his silk robes. He not so much stepped as flew forward, wing-like sleeves passing through the air as some sort of colourful vortex, dagger claws shining through it. The dark-coated stranger was in less than one heartbeat from the bright silk-draped death…

Then a blow full of awful, destructive force connected with the servant's chest and sent him flying into a wall.

Eric, once known as the Phantom of the Opera, removed his hat without much haste, revealing locks of faded colour, tied with a lace at the back of his head, and turned a black face towards the antiquity trader. It didn't take Jacob Lockhead more than a second to understand he was looking at a pathetically basic sort of mask, just a piece of dark cloth with eye-slits. When a yellow flame went up in those, fear struck.

A tawny-faced servant rolled over to his stomach, trying to get up with an effort, whereas another one was already in full attack mode, going at the guest promptly, a twin of the first one, in the identically-looking bright robes. A blade whooshed, completing the deadly curve supposed to slit the uninvited guest's throat, but within a breadth of a hair from it, the lethal flight was stopped. Hard fingers clawed at tanned cuff and squeezed it in steely grip. Sickening bone crunch lashed at Lockhead's eardrums. The guest's left fist flew up and met the dark-faced one's chin. 

While falling, the latter hit one of the wardrobes, causing it to rock. Ancient tableware clanked, some of the pieces, unable to hold their positions, went down and littered the floor with shards. In seconds, two more attackers were on Eric, blows swinging incessantly, and each blow would make a hole in an oak desk… if only at least one reached its goal. But the stranger avoided and evaded them with inhuman speed and agility – instead of crushing mortal flesh, the fists hit the air, once and again, getting stuck in coattails, exhausting their strength halfway. These fighters had known no matching rival, but this time, a demon was on the loose in the antiquity shop. 

In an incredible leap, one of the servants flew up to the back of the masked man, going at his throat. Another, with a well-calculated, cruel blow, made the foe go weak at the knees and hit the floor. At this very moment, though, Eric's hand in turn flew up, blocking what was meant to become the final blow… in the killer's dreams. Next, Eric scythe-hit the dark-faced servant, sending him down, and jumped back to his feet, catching the enemy bodily. The other one still hanged on his shoulders, making the former Phantom look like a wild beast hounded by a hunter's dog. Raising the attacker above his head, the guest threw him, from the level of his considerable height, back-first, onto the table, broken in the fight.

The first of the killers was still contorting in the last convulsions as the second, having screamed desperately, finally caught his foe's throat. He needed just seconds to avenge the death of a friend, a relative, with whom they were like brothers. 

His hands were then clasped by those of the masked man, and the terrified servant had his chance to fully appreciate the scope of unthinkable strength opposing him. 

His grip, slowly but surely, got weaker, whereas the visitor just as steadily worked on the strangler's hands, forcing them off and away. With a last compulsive effort, the attacker tried to claw at the intruder's hair, but all his fingers got was the mask's cloth. Eric threw the assassin away like a hound would do a spine-broken rat, and bared his teeth, but what appeared on the face revealed could not be called a smile by any stretch of imagination.

"Demon! Demon!"

"I had been called that, too", – the visitor agreed. 

In a minute, he picked up the scarf he got rid of even before the fight started, and looked over the devastation around, tsk-tsking disapprovingly. Having got off the floor the torn-off mask as well, he tried to put it against his face, shook his head, crumpled the cloth and pocketed it away.

His eyes found an opened door which led to the inner areas. 

Mr Jacob Lockhead sat at the table in his shop's central shrine, where the most amazing rarities were kept, waiting for their time. He didn't bother to lock the door – he knew by now there was little point to it. There was nowhere to run, no chance for survival. The only thing left was to meet his fate with dignity.   
Measured steps behind the door stopped, then the handle turned, and a tall slim figure materialised in the door frame. 

"Not to worry, , – came from the dark, – I still live. The rest, I am afraid, are not, though". 

He entered and the soft lamplight fell on his face, yellow like a parchment scroll, with a gaping opening where a nose should have been. The antiquities trader thought he was a non-believer as far as demons were concerned, save for those made of gold and silver, and treasured by those in the know… but what kind of creature was that, then? 

"I wish to ask you some questions, , and expect to have them answered", – Eric repeated his earlier words. 

"I will answer", – Lockhead's voice was hollow. 

"Bien. Not too long ago there was a robbery in the British Museum, which in itself is not nice at all, the exhibition in the making was exceptional. Some of stolen goods later surfaced at your shop, – a skinny hand dived into an inner pocket, and then a photograph of winged goat landed on the table. Pressing the picture to the desktop, the visitor pushed it towards the trader. – Who sold it?"

"I did not know it was part of British Museum's display, – Lockhead responded. – I would not go for this deal otherwise".

"Or simply wouldn't flaunt the bounty".

The trader shrugged dispassionately. "Contrary to the stupid tales which, I know, are quite popular in certain circles, – he said without so much as a stir, – I don't exercise a total surveillance over everything around. Unless, of course, there is a specific order coming my way. I was offered a fascinating exhibit, so I acquired it".

"Offered by whom?" 

Lockhead's hand went towards a pile of writing sheets of paper on the table. It was held by an ancient bronze clip shaped as a crane's head. The beak snapped open and released cards made of finest, yet solid, carton. One of those, the trader proffered to Eric, but not before scribbling some words on it. "The dealer, – he said. – Supplies me occasionally with some objects. He was not behind this robbery, but, perhaps, he could give you the right lead."

"Much obliged", – the Phantom of the Opera pocketed the card with a name in his coat and moved away from the table. Leaning against the wall he looked the room over, taking his time to appreciate paintings on the wall, until one drew him closer to have a better look. "Amazing! – he exclaimed. – A real Rubens?"

Lockhead chuckled softly. "Almost, – he said, openly appreciative of the latecomer's erudition. – Same school, at least. But this one's name got lost with the passage of time, which saddens me immensely, for the artist's talent speaks for itself. Alas, I would have to sell this under the name of more renowned contemporary. That is, of course, if I will find enough heart in myself to part with one of my collection's jewels". 

"Just don't go cheap", – Eric's horrifying face further distorted in understanding grin.

He stepped along the cases' row, paused from time to time at a painted china vase or bronze statue of a warrior, ready with a set bow, or to study gold-plated binds of the books, until one exhibit made him freeze in his track and lose control for the entirety of a full second. 

In a small niche, on a bed of dark cloth, there was a mask. It looked to be one of Venetian Volto makes, mimicking the features of a human face, only of improbably fine craft. But on a closer look, an array of differences came to light, relating to colour, texture, the features themselves…

"What's that? – there was a tremble to this voice now. – Another forgery, I take it?"

"No, – the antiquities trader replied curtly. – A genuine 17th century's item, only I never managed to find out who made it or on whose orders". 

Eric stretched his hand towards the mask and run his long, fine fingers along its surface with care bordering on tenderness. 

"A lot of superstitions surrounds masks per se, – Lockhead went on. He rose from the table and came over to the visitor, stopping beind his shoulder. – Plenty of tales about various secrets and curses haunting reckless or unworthy owners, stuff like that…"

The former Phantom of the Opera decisively took the mask and turned it over in his hands. The trader coughed.

"Kindly accept it as a gift", – he said.

A finely carved eyebrow crawled up in surprise. 

"This is too generous a gift", – Eric responded, familiar irony overlaying his voice.

"I insist!", – the shop owner waved a hand.

"Oh…" 

Having fitted the mask to his face, Eric turned back to the trader. Yellow flickers went up the eye-slits again, but in the next second the masked man snorted, threw the door open and left the room.

Leaving behind the ruins of Jacob Lockhead's shop, he proceeded on his way, expecting a long search ahead.

The dealer of stolen goods turned out, just as was expected, a mere link in a chain leading from the British Museum's treasuries to the Old Bond Street shop. Still, the visit produced some results, the man shared a certain bit of information, though not straight away: it had to be shaken out of him, dangling from Eric's hand, having the hapless dealer by the collar about half a metre above the ground. Several places and talkers – from mildly unpleasant to utterly disgusting – later (broken limbs, ribs and knocked out teeth went without saying), Eric finally got the name he was after. It raised his eyebrows behind the new mask, but only cemented his long-held views of the members of so-called high society. On the other hand, those the Frenchman met this evening, didn't remotely deserve the proud name of working class' representatives either, even despite the formality of their social status. Just try raising the banner of revolution here, Eric thought sullenly, climbing into his driving box. They would steal it straight away…

* * *

The equipage stopped in the maze of shadows cast by nearby trees. It was a simple but effective way of staying away from the prying eyes. Looks like, ex-Phantom of the Opera thought suddenly, it's enchantingly beautiful here in spring and summer, when narrow lawns separating the road from the houses grace the eye with fresh green, and the square opposite turns into a veritable woods. The current winter landscape resembled a painting of strictly three colours: untouched white of the snow layer and faraway stars, black of tree trunks and night sky, and yellow light of lanterns and square windows. But, basic as those artistic means were, everything around virtually exuded the air of wealth and high taste. 

Eric had been to Mayfair several times before, but until now, he hadn't had a chance to observe this most handsome district of London at his leisure – his cab proceeded without delays, and investigation of events involving the mysterious beast required going through back doors and servants' quarters. In the buzzing Park Lane, one had to be even more alert, rather than gawking around at luxury mansions' facades, the habitat of the high and mighty, in other words, useless lazy idlers, contributing nothing to civilisation's development. 

Judging by the sounds reaching his ears, there was yet another societal ball arranged nearby: he heard music play, people laugh, and posh coaches lined the street – whereas, the Frenchman grunted, a good half of the guests could easily reach the destination on foot. Some actually did – like that one skinny youth who just about half an hour ago marched down the street, merrily waving his staff. He wouldn't get away with it, should he come across some of local society's pillars who condemned the breach of etiquette as something worse than treason. As it was, he just disappeared in the doors of one of the most pretty mansions in the area. The house belonged to one Dorian Gray.

The former Phantom of the Opera recognised the youth by the given tips: a real Transylvanian nosferatu, in London on personal business, his direct employer's client, thus, in a way, a charge of Eric himself. Though, for a mysterious creature of night, the Count looked almost inappropriately trivial. "Your regular dandy playboy" was Eric's verdict, with an additional note that as far as bloodthirstiness was concerned, this nosferatu probably had nothing on the local population.   
Two windows shed soft light from the second floor, a rare shadow flickering behind tightly shut curtains, otherwise the house looked completely asleep. Could it be that the king of societal jungle lost his taste for entertainment? Or, the former Phantom grinned inwardly, did he simply find himself a new hobby, fully taking him over? 

Gray's name was not strange to Eric either: Van Helsing mentioned it to him, unhappy about the scarcity of precise information (the scientist was not included in the circles in question), and by some servants too, though their tales didn't seem all that trustworthy, especially particularly exotic-sounding ones. Dorian Gray was also subject of talk in East End, where they were much more blunt, and much less reserved in vocabulary. Eric was even surprised when a lead that started in the workers' districts wound up in an aristocratic flowerpot. 

The horse humphed slightly, letting out a white cloud of vapour into the frosty air. 

"Do not fret, my beauty", – the Phantom of the Opera muttered in French, patting the neck of his dear companion absent-mindedly and never taking his eyes off Gray's house. A crazy thought flitted through his mind – what about taking a look inside? There might be some important evidence there. He would go down to the back door which, of course, would turn out locked. And, sure enough, in a grand house like this, there would always be plenty of people, including several guards, not to mention that Mayfair's police contingent was thrice the number of the rest of them in London (save only for Buckingham Palace). Nevertheless, the residents here got robbed on regular basis. And Eric didn't even mean to rob anyone. 

"Be still and wait for me", – he whispered to the horse and, one shadow among many, dashed towards the mansion.

He circled the house without being noticed by anyone. Now, where was that separate door for the servants, ah yes… Grills, locks and guards could not stop a Phantom. 

Someone's scream, filled with pain and despair, cut into Eric's ill-intentioned plans, causing his hair stand on end. Without thinking, without weighing options, purely on instinct, he rushed towards the source of the sound. 

A man ran along the Park Lane clumsily, falling down and rising again, giving each movement all the remaining strength, and there was clearly not much left. Short, burly, with a bloody spot on the top of his head, dressed in old-fashioned dark jacket, one sleeve torn off, one tail hanging by a thread – everything indicated that he just got out of a life-or-death fight, and was teetering on the brink, not knowing, which would it be in his case. The scales of fate were in uncertain balance. He fell again, tried to get up, using his shaking hands… no go; then he froze for several moments, crouching on the snow, and then, in one bound, sent the body, no longer responding to the calls of mind, further ahead. One more movement, sharp, jerky, as if from a marionette operated by an unskilled craftsman, still resulted in him getting a step closer to his goal, that being Dorian Gray's mansion front doors. Then there was one more step.

"It cannot be, – Eric muttered coarsely, clearly recognising the wounded man. – Igor? After all these years…"  
The police patrol, doing their daily rounds, noticed him as well. A piercing whistle, crashing sounds, then constables made a run towards the man, but Eric was far ahead of them, carrying the man in his arms, away, to where the cab was waiting. Tearing his glove off, he pressed his hand against the cloth of the jacket, only to pull it off again swiftly, painted red.

It was blood, sure enough. 

Whoever delivered this blow in the back, meant business – nine of ten would die on the spot, the remaining statistical negligibility might survive for several minutes more. Yet the bald man in a shredded jacket still clang to life. 

"You need a doctor, – Eric said firmly, dragging the wounded one into the equipage. – And I happen to know one…"

The wounded man unexpectedly shook his head and, concentrating his eyes with an effort, drew closer to Eric, catching his coat. Coarsely sounding words in unintelligible tongue, shot from his lips. 

"I don't understand", – Eric said in French, then in English. To his surprise, light, almost colourless eyes became more lucid. 

"I-is that you?"

The Phantom of the Opera jerked his head, looking puzzled: Igor seemed to be raving. 

"You! – he pushed the word from his mouth with difficulty. – My… master… is to be in a great… trouble". Having caught his breath, he moved even closer, face to face with Eric and, looking into his eyes, continued: "Must… save. T-there", – he waved a hand towards Dorian Gray's mansion. It appeared to exhaust the last remnants of life he still had in him. Both Igor's hands brushed weakly against the coat, his body went limp and was about to hit the floor. Eric prevented that. 

Policemen were closing on them. The Phantom of the Opera shut the cab's door, leapt to the driving box and grabbed the reins, sending the horse forth.

To Westwick Gardens street they went.


	13. Transylvanian Winter

For two days straight the land was overhung with the oppressive, low, shot clouds. It was snowing incessantly, obscuring the daylight and turning the houses into giant drifts. Each morning the villagers developed a new skills of archaeological-like digging of their own yards, domestic structures and all you can't take inside with you. There was a railway station two miles from the settlement, but there was no train from Sigishoara which could handle snow tumbles that separated the place from civilisation in one night. Carpathian winter left the locals to the harsh mercies of elements and the people just grinned and bore it, no grumbles. 

It became colder in the evening, but in still air, the frost turned into a playful little beast, slightly biting your cheeks and getting your blood run faster in the veins. The sun, long disappeared behind the dark ridge of mountains, was replaced by a silver sickle of the growing crescent, lighting the skies, peppered with scattering of bright stars. The sparkling snow crackled with footfall – young people rushed towards each other, the venerable fathers and mothers of the families exchanged visits, windows burned bright in the inn at a small hotel, and sounds of music promised a merry night to everyone caring to drop by. They respected traditions in Transylvania, not in a hurry to change their rites and routines to get in tune with fleeting trends and fashions of the day, so an educated traveller, should one find oneself in the village this evening, would surely feel he made a turn a hundred years into the past. At the very least.

The woodland started abruptly, almost immediately as the village ended. It was rather clear at the marge, but the deeper you went into it, the thicker and bleaker it got. Yet it was crossed almost through its entirety by a rather smooth and wide glade – and, having covered its distance through the forest, you would get into a valley, which was largely unmarked in official maps. 

The outskirts, as far as the eye could see, were blanketed in a rich lawyer of snow that could easily become waist-deep, if you were not careful. Only a thread of birds' spoor spoiled the primal whiteness of its surface. These woods never knew a wood-cutter's axe, and neat fir trees, throwing long, narrow shadows in the moonshine, reached the heights of dozens of metres. And on the rock cliff over the frozen river, there was an ancient, well-fortified castle.

The researchers who wear their trousers thin in the archive rooms and destroy the remnants of their sight hunching over antique manuscripts, noted several noble Saxon bloodlines which once settled in Transylvania. Must be quite an eccentric type of person, considering they discarded all the marvels of the Age of Enlightenment and all the temptations of big cities for the solitude in this nondescript hamlet. 

The steep upward path led straight to the main gates – and there was surprisingly little snow there. It didn't look cleared, though, more like snow just didn't go there, as if the nature itself chose to open the way to the castle for the preferred (by the landowner) guests. The inner garth was practically clean. 

A spacious hall awaited behind the heavy doors. Then, there was a circular staircasae. 

Having climbed it, a guest would end up in a long corridor, where his insubstantiality would be made dead clear to him by the painted scowls and peering eyes of the relatives of the castle owner, one Count von Vittelburschartstaufen. At the end of the route, there was the entrance into the virtual altar of the fortress, an amazing library that amassed treasures easily matching the Emperor's Collection.

A servant, skinny man in an old-fashioned livery, stopped at the entrance and knocked. Once allowed in, he pushed the halfdoor and entered soundlessly. Bookcases' rows looked like a forest, gilded binds glistened dully in the volatile gleam of fire, and the shadows appeared to have a life of their own, moving around as the flames played in the air. The servant put a tray with two imposing wine bottles and two goblets on the table, bowed silently and left the room, still without a modicum of noise. 

A ruby liquid that surged into the chalice beamed brighter than any jewel. Having filled one goblet, the count offered it to a guest, almost swallowed by the depths of a huge armchair near the fireplace, and sank into the one nearby. Taking a sip, the guest closed his eyes in approval.

"Bull's blood". A superb bouquet". 

“I keep it just for you”, – the count picked up his own goblet.

“You know my habits. I am not into drinking… wine, that is. Almost”.

A shadow suddenly coalesced behind his back and smoothly flew over the arm, as if trying to peer into the goblet, or even check the richness of the flavour itself. A sharp move of hand, a curt Romanian curse – and the shadow flinched, shrivelled and fell to the floor, dissipating into the other shadows, thrown by the table, chairs and bookcases. 

“No manners at all, – the guest commented, putting the goblet back down and rising from the chair. It was a growthy man of about forty. His lengthy dark hair was tied at the back of his head with a narrow band. His clothes, while solid, looked simple, and the sharp-featured face could hardly be considered handsome: it was a face of a warrior, who knew both sweetness of victory and bitterness of defeat. The fireplace's flames, reflected in these dark eyes, resembled of burning, conquered cities. 

The count just shook his head. He looked older, thanks to thoroughly grey hair, falling well below his shoulder blades. Even a cue of its original colour was long gone, though, judging by his thick eyebrows, he was a brunet in his youth, too. An eagle-eyed and strong-chinned profile was worthy of adorning a coin or at least a canvas, so as to take its rightful place in the pantheon of numerous ancestor and relations – soldiers, philosophers, politicians, courtiers, who added to the glory and might of their state for ages. 

“I can't fathom why you won't throw them out of here!” – the dark-haired guest went on, meanwhile. His back was turned to the fireplace, hands clasped behind, looking like a black faceless silhouette against the flames. 

“Where will I put them? – there was a slight hue of irony to the count's voice. – They are just ghosts and fully harmless. They can't touch or spoil a thing".

"The decent ghost's place is in the basement”, – the guest snapped, falling back into the armchair and stretching long legs shod in hunter's wellies closer to the fire.

The count turned around, looked at the shadows from under a bushy frown and gestured casually. It became darker in the library but for a brief moment, then flames in the fireplace bickered once, just to shine brightly and smoothly again. The shadows disappeared, every single one of them.

The dark-haired one watched the show with an interest, his chin resting on his hand.

“Impressive, – he nodded in endorsement, slumping back into the depth of the armchair. – But I should say, you spoiled all the local population horribly, and I don't mean only the disembodied ones. The discipline! – he intoned as in allocution – that's what is lacking at your castle, whereas it's the basics of everything! Trust me, the army without orderliness is…"

“I do not have an army, – the count cut in. – Nor do I need one”.

“It's easy to notice that you haven't had to defend a fortress in a long time”, – the guest grinned.

“You are right, – the count sipped from his goblet and put it to one side. – I do hope, I won't need it at all, ever again. Vlad, you are still itching for a war, whereas I had had enough of it three centuries ago”.

“Had you not stopped me back then, – the guest's shoulder jerked. – The ruck…”

“It was too late”. 

“Nor for the revenge!” – the scarlet gleam in the dark eye no longer looked like a flame reflection. 

“No point, – the count shook his head again. – I gave up a while ago, it's long past time for you to do the same. Is hunting at your fiefdom not enough to alleviate your boredom?”

“Not exactly, – Vlad confessed. – Tell you what: I was damn glad when our acquaintances from England paid a visit two years ago”. 

“Big secret, – the count snorted. – Anyone knowing a first thing about your predilections could foretell your response a mile away”.

“At times, I had to really contain myself from giving the dear Professor and his aides some valuable advice as to how my castle should be properly stormed. It's nigh unbearable to watch amateurs going about such a taxing undertaking". 

Both the landlord and the guest burst out laughing.

As the laugh died off, Vlad resolutely took the bottle for himself. 

"Don't tell me even the young wife doesn't help it, – the count, still smiling, accepted the goblet from his friend's hand. – By the way, speaking of all things matrimonial, be so kind to warn me in advance about the surprises such as the one last time, so I can drum up my retreat while there's still time".

"At your castle, what does it matter, three more or less? – the guest smirked ruefully, but the host's glance cut him short of further frivolities. – Any news from London?"

"The last letter came in three days ago, and, I'm afraid, what with snow drifts blocking the roads, I won't see another one in a while", – the count responded, a shadow of wistfulness colouring his voice. 

"The drifts can be removed".

"I'd rather not draw attention. The weather is the talk of the day this time of year, but it would be unwise to make this talk interesting overmuch. I'm certain, should a real need arise, Igor will send a word. It's good for Aurel to feel self-dependent, it does a character good".

"If you are worried about his inner strength, London was not the place to send him to, – Vlad grumbled. – I suggested Viener Neustadt straight away". 

"…And started the list of this city's advantages from the Theresian Military Academy", – the count gathered up. 

"Two-centuries-old tradition of officer training! Remember the name he carries on!"

"It would be kind of hard to forget", – the count muttered.

"You still view him as a child, but how old is he, indeed? At this age, I…"

"As a special favour, spare me the details, please!" – the count raised a hand. Vlad fell silent with a sullen look. 

For a while, they just drank their wine watching the flames play. Only the crackling of the log broke the silence. 

Aurel writes he saw Macbeth thrice and was thoroughly enthralled each time, – the host finally spoke. – Besides, he made several interesting and useful acquaintances which, it appears, mollified him a little about my refusal to let him go to Paris…"

There was some indiscernible coming from the neighbouring armchair, but the overall tone of voice suggested that Vlad did not approve of Paris and new acquaintances alike, with a possible exception of Macbeth.

"I meant to ask you to allow me to re-read Fronteen, – he said, having finished with the wine. – Do you not mind?"

"Stratagems, you mean? – the count's eyebrow shot up. – I am thinking of giving you this book as a present, you re-read it three times already, each time it took you half a year".

Vlad jumped up from his armchair and rubbed his hands in glee. 

"And what about Notes of Gallic War, then?"

"Be my guest".

Having left his guest alone with the bookshelves, the count came over to the window. The landscape spread before his eyes was enchanting in its primal natural splendour: endless black velvet of the sky, interspersed with diamond constellations, mighty arrays of rock, capped with the sheer whiteness at the top… So solid, so unchangeable, embodying a sheer contempt to the fleeting time – perhaps, it did freeze forever in this lost kingdom.

"I have to go, – Vlad, without making a sound, turned up near him. – I had better be in Brashov before dawn".

"You are awaited". 

"Yes, I have to watch over the castle's reconstruction. A less than attractive type of entertainment, I must say". 

"Be patient. You do have an experience at laying a siege, do you not?"

"Which is the only consolation to take heart in. Ah, the memories… Until next time, Augustus".

"Have been glad to see you, Vlad. I hope I won't have to wait long for your next visit".

Holding the books tightly under his arm, Vlad went down the corridor, absent-mindedly glancing over the row of the portraits. He even personally knew some of the models. 

"My deepest apologies for bothering you, your grace, – a servant condensed from the shadows, a tray in his hands, with something white on it. – We just received a telegram for you name".

"Balderdash, – Vlad snapped. – Impossible. What kind of telegraph can there be?"

"The one in the left tower", – the servant bowed again and proffered the tray.

Settling the books at the balustrade edge, Count Vlad turned a narrow piece of paper in his hands with a puzzled look, then squinted at the words.

_"Count Dracula, your son is taken hostage.  
If you want his life spared, come to London before…"_

Turning in a flash, Vlad grabbed the servant by the throat and pressed him against the wall. 

"Left tower, you say? – he hissed, hunching over the man and showing him suddenly lengthened fangs. – Lead me there. And, – the grip went tighter, – not a word to the lord".


	14. Memories

Having visited Sir Augustus Franks to discuss the financial prospects, which looked less than uplifting, lord Darnham headed towards the museum. His gait was resolute, his pose immaculate, his thoughts hopeless throughout. In concert with Lord Hamilton and other venerable members of the Egypt Research Fund, they were to sort out the situation with the upcoming exhibition.

Having cleaned the toes of his shoes off the sticky snow with his cane, and shaken the snowflakes away from his top hat, Darnham entered the spacious hall and froze in his tracks looking around helplessly. Once again, police stroke around the museum in a business-like manner. 

Behind them, he could see the imposing build of Lord Hamilton. The latter's ruffled moustache indicated the utmost excitement. 

"Ah, that's you!" – Lord Hamilton firmly pushed a stumpy, thick-set constable off his way, waving to Lord Darnham to come over. 

"Oh dear, have we been robbed again?"

"Much more intriguing than that, my friend!" – with this, the head of the fund took him by the arm and led the way to his study. Until there, he kept quiet, leaving the colleague's imagination to run free with all possible horrors. While he could deftly handle any hardship encountered at digging, be that poisonous snakes, venomous scorpions, predatory jackals, sandstorms, thirst, highwaymen, what have you, back home Lord Darnham felt entirely vulnerable, a mere pawn within the ruthless set of conventions. What a pity, it occurred to him more than once, that a gentleman, while in London, couldn't just put a gun to someone's head as a means of persuasion to cooperate. Alas, this was a place of duelling with words, in which being right didn't help much – only having a better solicitor, that is, one of higher oratory skills. The other way was coming from a long line of ancestors and / or boasting a hefty current account. Truly, being a gentleman is quite a chore more often than not…

Hamilton unlocked the door guarded by a policeman and turned back to Darnham.

"Brace yourself, dear dir, it's one hell of a sight".

"I am ready for everything", – the other responded gravely. 

"Jemmurabi is back", – Lord Hamilton declared slowly in somewhat solemn tone. Lord Darnham just about caught himself before asking "on his own volition, you mean?" The absurdity of the question alone made him think better of it.

"Come in," – Lord Hamilton flung the door open.

Oh yes, that was him, the ill-fortuned relative of Snofru, the pharaoh who expected immortality and didn't get any rest for centuries. Lord Darnham would recognise him anywhere, having spent hours upon hours studying just about every inch of the precious mummy. 

Gods almighty, what a pitiful state that mummy was in now, spread on a writing desk! The ages deprived this once proud son of Egypt from any modicum of good looks, that much was true long time ago, yet they didn't do nearly as much harm as did unknown – but already burningly hated with all scientific s heart – vandals. 

"How..? – Lord Darnham whispered, darting towards the desk. – How did you find him? What on earth, for goodness' sake, happened to him?"

"He was found by a gateman on morning patrol, – Hamilton eased into an armchair and rubbed his brow tiredly. – Or rather, he noted a suspicious sack on the steps near the front door. He peeked into it, was duly impressed with what he saw and rushed back to his cubbyhole to calm his agitation with some alcohol. That gave him some courage and he called the police, which, in turn, called me".

"This poor man, the gateman, is he alright, I dare hope?" 

"I sent him home, – Lord Hamilton said, – and then sent for you, hoping you would be in". 

Darnham's finger carefully, almost tenderly, touched Jemmurabi's skull, went down the bumps on the brow, superciliary ridges, cheekbones, nose opening, upper jaw… The lower, as if bared in defiance, looked at the Egyptologist from the emptied sack at the edge of the desk. 

"They didn't return the sarcophagus, – Hamilton said, – and, its price considered, I wouldn't expect anyone ever will". 

"What are the police saying?" – Lord Darnham put the skull back on the desk, adjusted the jaw and went about setting up the available bones in anatomic order. 

"Keeping an enigmatic silence. They are as puzzled as are we". 

"As usual", – Darnham grumbled under his breath. 

Both Egyptologist fell silent for quite a while. One methodically sorted out the bones, the other, having armed himself with a magnifying glass, inspected each one for damage. 

Their wordless, but so telling consensus was intruded upon by Professor Vas Helsing. The door was opened a tiny crack, so he could enter without being seen and watch the Egyptologists' work unchecked. His eyes burned the way his students at university knew only too well – the fire which cannot be dampened by anything life might throw at you, provided you were born a scientist. 

Lord Darnham carefully put the right radius on the desk. Above it, the humerus was placed, and further above, the collarbone. The shoulder blade and the cubit on the right side were missing. 

"Oh, here you are! – Lord Hamilton rose from the desk and shook the stretched hand. – Will you join our little soul feast?"

"But of course! – the Professor, without a flicker of hesitation, moved closer and, wasting not a second, looked over the frail remnants of the pharaoh briefly yet piercingly. – Judging by how his deceased majesty looks, he used his detour to visit every seedy venue in London there is". 

The lords exchanged glances, looked at Jemmurabi, at each other again and burst out laughing. Clearly, they could easily picture the mummy's adventures, and colour the picture in for good measure. 

"However, would my respected colleagues be kind enough to tell me, why are we still here and not in the lab?" – van Helsing hinted once they caught their breath. 

"I must confess, I was so shaken with the pharaoh's return, I forgot everything else, – Lord Darnham sighed sadly. – Of course, we should move the remains to a more suitable location".

"Besides, – Van Helsing glanced over the bones again, – there's not enough space to fit the whole skeleton in".

That's why he came back home well into the dusk. 

He checked up on Igor, made sure that the latter took all the medicines prescribed and went on to the dining room, where Jonathan was waiting, a distinguished-looking thick tome on his lap. In an armchair nearby, normally taken by the professor himself, Eric sprawled, pretending to read an evening edition. 

Igor was accommodated in a servant's room. Mrs Turner at first objected to setting up a hospital in her property, all the more one for a foreigner, but, upon hearing his tragic (and dramatically concise) story, relented. The landlady was then pleasantly surprised to find the guest to be a neat, thrifty, earnest man. 

The moment Van Helsing estimated the patient's state as fit enough to talk, Igor told him everything. Aurel received an invitation from his friend, one Dorian Gray, at his address in Park Lane. Igor did not escort him at the time. He stayed at home and busied himself with his usual chores, until a strange and intensifying worry about the Count's welfare overcame him. That was when the servants hired with references from Gray, attacked him.

Fortunately for Igor, they thought he was dead and threw the body out on the street. After a while, he came to and, gathering his remaining strength, rushed after his young lord. The rest was relayed by Eric. 

Thanks to healing ministrations of Van Helsing, Igor was recovering extraordinarily fast, and the moment he was fit enough to leave the bed (which didn't take long), started to help running the house. All Professor's remonstrations about refraining from an undue strain before the complete recuperation were met with invariable postulate of "the work is the best heal-master for Igor". 

Once Jonathan noted to Van Helsing: "I suppose, work distracts him somewhat from thinking of…" He didn't have time to complete the thought, because Igor, upon hearing this, immediately objected: "I am not to forget the young master but for a minute. He is to be here in my heart and soul, always". Jonathan and Professor chose not to voice their own feelings about the matter, but the guilt about the young nosferatu, now deep in trouble, weighed hard on the conscience of them both. Van Helsing did remark once that in several respects the situation was just out of their control – no one of them travelled in the Count's circles, and how would then they watch his every step, let alone giving him instructions? No one could have predicted what had happened. But all the logic of this reasoning did nothing for the sense of guilt. There was no need for words – both knew they would do all to rescue Aurel. 

"Any news?" – Van Helsing came over to the fireplace and leaned on the mantelpiece. 

"The boy is alive, but thoroughly helpless, – Eric responded, turning his masked face towards the Professor. – I made some acquaintances within the valetry from this Gray's mansion. Never underestimate the servants!" – he raised his index finger didactically, but immediately retreated it under Van Helsing's amused glance. "They can be invisible and inaudible, but they are neither blind or deaf, nor are they mute". 

"We shall most certainly take this into account, – Professor nodded. – Go on, Monsieur Eric".

"There are always some dubious specimens about the house and outside, a sort of a watch, I would suppose. And, judging by the weapons they clank with when walking, I don't think it's thieves they are guarding the house from. Besides, there's something really nasty involved".

"Meaning?" – Jonathan chirped in.

"Magic!" – Eric's tone was grave and solemn. He fell silent, checking out the impression he made.

"Oh, – was the Professor's response. – Well, I would call it a sensible measure on part of Mr Gray, considering the circumstances".

The Frenchman appeared to be somewhat hurt in his feelings. "It should have surprised a true scientist".

"I did have a chance or two to encounter some surprising phenomena, Monsieur, – van Helsing's smile was virtually paternal. – I seem to remember taking part in an African expedition, in 78th. It was commissioned by Dutch Royal Geographic Society. Turned out to be a truly wondrous journey. We discovered a lost tribe, right at the heart of those terrifying, but not a bit less beautiful for it, forsaken lands. It was an authentic little island of the most ancient culture, ruled by caste of priests who practised old magic rites. Partly it was explainable through science, another part was nothing but tricks-of-foolery for their, should I say, flocks. Yet some of the things they did remained a mystery – and not for our lack of trying to get to the bottom of it. Nevertheless, we had a great honour of being invited to one of sacred ceremonies and even taking part in it. It was a string of sacrifices for gods, first flowers and fruits, then birds and small beasts of burden, then a large animal and finally, a human sacrifice…"

"So, – Eric's interest was unfeigned, – did you make this last one, too?"

"No, – the Professor smiled graciously, – it's not approved of in scientific circles".

There was a soft, but clear bit of laughter from the corner where Jonathan was sitting.

"Are you making fun of me?" – there was an umbrage to Eric's voice.

"Not at all", – Professor bit his lower lip just slightly.

Eric rose from his chair. "If you don't want to tell me, you're within your right. I think, I will go home", – his voice was demonstrably indifferent. Having bowed theatrically, he headed towards the exit. 

"Ah my friend, – van Helsing shook his head in sympathy, watching the door close behind their assistant and sinking into the armchair he vacated – now I am haunted by a guilty conscience".

Jonathan grinned, put the book away, and, to the silent approval of the Professor, got a bottle of brandy.

…For a while the two friends watched the fire, enjoying the quiet and peace.

"You went so deep into thought, I am worried, – the Professor said after a time. – Mrs Turner is cooking our supper and I already smell its glorious aroma, anticipating the upcoming delights of culinary, whereas your unconcern towards such things at your young age is definitely not healthy".

The lawyer smirked and gently shook his glass, still filled with the drink.

"Forgive me, dear professor, but your story stirred my own memories, and those proved much too intense. I was thinking about you, about our friendship – and that horrible event which made us join our forces again to save an innocent soul. I grant you though, upon our return from Transylvania I did hope to God that all the life had in store for me from then on was a dull and measured existence of an attorney. I should listen to you at the time when, on our way back to England, you warned me that the past we lived though would yet catch up with us, more than once. 

"You see, Jonathan, you were blessed by an encounter with different world, another form of life, and that knowledge changed you, and everything around you. As was said, once having tasted a fruit from tree of knowledge…"

"…you leave the Paradise forever, – the young man's smile just touched the corners of his mouth. – If meeting a nosferatu is fraught with exile from Paradise, how then can it be called a blessing?"

Professor shook his head. "No, my friend. You are a good Christian and, naturally, for you the Tree of Knowledge means The Tree of Good and Evil. But we learn not just the nature of good and evil. We learn about a lot of things, effects, aspects and properties. The tree of those might not be mentioned in the Bible, but it's still important for us as a kind. I have always liked you, my dear Jonathan, since the moment we first met. You have an inquiring mind, are strong in spirit, capable of thinking wide and without bias. At the same time, there's fire in you, a thirst and, if I may, passion. You crave the knowledge and your perception can accept it. Besides, to reiterate, once having tasted the fruit of knowledge, people can't make themselves stop, it's not in our power. We shall want more for the rest of our lives". 

"In that particular respect I will never be a match for you, Professor".

"True", – Van Helsing agreed demurely, and Jonathan laughed.

Professor pulled over a bottle and added some brandy to his glass.

"When, half a year later, you appeared at my door, eyes burning, I was not in the least surprised, – he said. – I still remember the day when you wished me a good morning and then blurted out "It looks like I am losing my mind!"

"I was scared off my wits. Couldn't even explain anything to you".

"Let us call it an insight. Which proved right in the end. Only thanks to your astuteness we managed to save that innocent soul. No! – Van Helsing raised his hand to stop the other from objecting. – Don't even try to argue. You alone noticed something odd about the behaviour of a respected gentleman and company he was keeping. No one else sensed the doom. No one bothered to go to library for information…"

"No one would ever allow for such a though, – the young man's voice was harsh. – Why, he was such a successful lawyer, I would even say brilliant. I studied several high-profiled cases he was in charge of". 

Van Helsing poured some more brandy for Jonathan. "Nobody's perfect", – he noted ironically. 

"What's truly amazing, is that he didn't even find anything wrong with his actions! On the contrary, in his eyes, the horrendous crime he planned was virtually an honour for his poor intended victim".

"He was a fanatic, and an insane one at that", – Van Helsing commented.

"Which proved a complete surprise for his friends and colleagues. We are so easily fooled by appearances. Follow the common conventions and practices, do nothing out of habitual line, and no one will even pause to look behind the façade…"

Professor Van Helsing sighed.

"Monsters hidden under the veneer of respectability are little different from the brethren of Count and other supernatural creatures, – he said softly. – To battle them, you have to acknowledge their existence first. On the other hand, what is a perpetration to us, for some is the highest degree of gallantry and bravery. Our moral principles could be seen as a sheer stupidity by some Australian aborigine". 

"But there are basic rules after all, those are universal! Everybody is bound to them!"

Van Helsing opened his mouth to object. And it wasn't like he had nothing for it. 

"My good friend, – he might say, – you are talking about the dogma of faith. But the most terrifying crimes ever in the history of humankind have been committed for faith". Or: "You believe in humane inclinations, but over-generalise them, applying this idea to the entire planet". 

Instead, he saluted Jonathan with his glass and said: "I'm profoundly happy that you did me the courtesy of becoming my friend and comrade".

There was nothing to argue about anyway, coming to think of it.

The door squeaked slightly, and Eric appeared in the hall again, in slippers, long robes and a well-worn little tome under his arm. Jonathan squinted and managed to make out the word "Montaigne" on the cover.

"Gentlemen, – the Phantom bowed impersonally, – that is me again, bound by duty. They just delivered a telegram, and I was bold enough to sign for it".

With that, he fished a folded paper out of his pocket.

"You made yourself acquainted with the contents, naturally?" – Van Helsing put on the glasses. The former Phantom of the Opera didn't bother to confirm the obvious. 

"My God", – was all Professor said, holding the note out for his companion. Jonathan read:

_"Arriving Thursday. No reception. Will come in person. Dracula"_


	15. Prisoner of Park Lane

Yet another dull winter day came around, but this time grey layer of cloud was notably thinner, promising some fragment of clear sky down the line to lift the spirits of the townsfolk. The coming festivities did not just lit a sparkle of true warmth in hardened and frozen hearts of humankind, the very ruthless London weather relented somewhat. Let the men of scientists talk about streams of wind, looking important, their index fingers pointed straight up – that's something they would say and do.

Despite the sun still being conspicuous with its absence, the light of day managed to make its way into the luxuriously furnished room of the Park Lane mansion, allowing to discern the slightest details, from ornament on a throw, to several porcelain trinkets adorning a little table near the window. The only space still in shadows was a far corner of the place. It looked like the light would rather stay away from there itself, keeping its ground as some sort of hem, making a clear border between the zone of day and that of twilight. 

The Count Aurel Athilla von Vittelburchartschtaufen stood in silence next to a wall, resting his shoulder against it, his hands crossed against his chest, absolutely still. He looked more like a masterfully carved statue than a living being, though some statues look more animated than this shadows-clad figure. It was more than likely that anyone peering in wouldn't at first even notice the dweller, but any peering was out of bounds by the strictest orders of the homeowner, Mr Dorian Gray. The foreign visitor was left to his own devices.

A captive. 

It was an entirely new and exceedingly painful experience for the Count, and not just in figurative sense, but literally, physically as well. He had stayed at Dorian Gray's house for four days straight, and there was no leaving it, much as he tried. There appeared to be some kind of disgusting sorcery involved, the sort father's books described – the very ones the count kept locked firmly away in the remotest shelves. Once he volunteered to talk about the magic with his son, but Aurel felt sick immediately at the first attributes of the most basic rites, and the count postponed the lessons until a better time, leaving "all the remaining treasures of the library" at his only son's disposal. Alas, before said better time had a chance to materialise, the day arrived for Aurel to depart to England – the fact now bitterly regretted by the Count. If only… then, perhaps, he wouldn't be taken prisoner that easily – and by a human, no less! 

If he came across Aurel's father instead… or, better still, the uncle… now either of them would come up with a fitting response, no question about that. The entire mansion would have been laid waste to, and not a single resident of it would have a slightest chance of survival. 

Now he often dwelled on his uncle's tales about his youth, including his spell in Turkish jail (there was a special diplomatic term for this, which didn't change the facts one bit). He used to hate them to bits, finding these tales utterly boring and exceedingly gory. Strange how much of them stayed on, though. Enough, in any event, for him not to be one bit deluded about his situation: he was a hostage, to be disposed of the very moment he stopped being of use. And whatever use Dorian Gray meant for him – not a pleasant one, for certain – he showed no intention to clarify it so far. He just smiled a lot, called the Count his guest and assured him of enjoying his company way too much to allow the dear visitor leaving his mansion. 

It sounded especially insulting at the first instance, when nosferatu writhed on the floor, driven almost out of his wits by excruciating pain, craving a blessed unconsciousness even for a fleeting moment. Gray intoned oddly sounding words, in a tongue young Count was unfamiliar with, – and it felt like thousands white-hot needles pricking every inch of Aurel's body, depraving him of strength and will to resist. Even a hint of a movement proved to be a torture, every second stretched to a year. Finally, having completed the spell, Dorian had mercy on his catch by allowing him to faint at last.

Several hours later Aurel opened his eyes and at first just basked in a lack of pain. 

He came around in a guest room, furnished so as to satisfy the most demanding taste. There were no chains to restrict his movement, no grills on the windows – but of course, Gray would never abide such a vulgarity – but the nosferatu no longer was his own master, and that sensation was in equal measures intense and well-grounded in reality. 

He was not kept under a lock, the magic did not interfere with him wandering almost the entire grounds of the mansion, but most effectively prevented leaving them altogether. He couldn't enter some rooms either, though, nor turn into certain corridors, or climb certain stairs in whatever direction. All in all, Gray did leave him a spacious enough enclosure for strolling. It felt a little bit like how it did in Transylvania when he came to a doorstep of a house where he was not invited: not technically an obstacle, no pain involved, it just… was. Something – reminiscent of a natural law – simply made a specific kind of action undoable and not even negotiable. 

Yet there was pain involved when he attempted to attack Gray – which, of course, he did first thing as he regained consciousness and saw the scum within his reach. And what a pain it was: the torture of the first spell seemed a slight slap on the wrist by comparison. "Another escapade like that will kill you, – Gray then said coldly, rising from his armchair and heading towards the exit. – We are both sentient beings, and therefore can reach an understanding. Don't make me destroy you".

For the first two days of his captivity the Count contemplated death. Not the kind which only marks leaving the human world for that of nosferatu, which he didn't himself go through, but some of those he knew did, – but the true one, total and irrevocably finite, a complete non-existence. He might not be as skilful in controlling the weather as was his father – not even close, to be frank, – but sending the clouds away for a brief period of time was well within his range. After which there would be no need for further efforts. Several rays of sun and less than a minute of patience would do the trick alright. 

But Aurel did not want to die – not one bit. "Only the true death is irreparable, all the rest can be changed," – his father once said on some completely unrelated occasion. The words brushed across the young nosferatu's mind almost imperceptible – and yet proved to enter his memory for good. 

On top of walking around and watching the life in Park Lane – which, in other circumstances, might prove a great entertainment, – the Count was allowed to replenish his strength with eating. While doing so, he kept the promise to his father throughout, even though Dorian Gray most likely didn't care one way or another. 

The lock behind him clicked softly, marking the opening of the door – the uninvited guest on the other side had a key. Thoroughly oiled hinges didn't produce a sound when letting in a short, stumpy, wildly hairy – almost up to his eyebrows – visitor. The Count looked back and glanced over the apparition, giving his all to convey his contempt as fully as possible. He was well-rewarded and entirely satisfied with the burning hate in the other's eyes. 

"The master expects you in his studies, hellspawn", – Nikolae said coarsely in Romanian.

"The master… – The Count grinned widely, showing off his fangs. – But of course, a hound needs one". 

"Give me but a cause", – the werewolves bared his own fangs. 

"Gladly!" – the nosferatu settled in an armchair and gave Gray's servant a defiant look. 

Nikolae hunched. His fingers started to crook, crude yellow nails lengthened visibly, turning into corneous claws, powerful enough to tear living flesh apart, a hollow roar came from under the curled upper lip… and then, at the first attempt of having a go, the shapeshifter was thrown to the floor, whimpering pitifully in pain. 

"This spell will not last forever, – Nikolae promised when the convulsions subsided, allowing him his freedom and the possibility to get up. – Sooner or later, the master will lift it. And then I will rend you limb by limb". 

"Be off, hound", – Count retorted disgustedly, turning to the mirror. 

The crash of the slammed door resembled the rumble of a thunderbolt. 

Aurel picked a comb from the table and ran it through his fair hair. Humans think vampires unable to be reflected in the mirrors. They are wrong. It's just one of their kind's attributes: the reflection is there, a human eye simply can't catch it.

Having completed tidying of his hair, the Count made a ponytail and tied it with a black velvet ribbon. Gray did not forbid the entrance of Count's residence for the servants, but they, evidently sensing some sort of emanations, chose to keep well away, except when the lord and master clearly compelled them not to. Most of the time, the Count took care of his needs by himself: there was a modern bathroom in the apartments, combing was not much of a chore either, nor was clothing or making the bed. There were not many servants back home in Transylvania, so the father trained Aurel to fend for himself since his early childhood. Good job the London's high society didn't know about that: upon such discovery they might easily consider their guest a person of extremely eccentric persuasion, if not an outright dangerous troublemaker in waiting. 

The Count flung the wardrobe open and studied the available selection of dressing with a grill. Gray showed a touching care for his guest by ordering the delivery of almost all his possessions from his Lowndes Place accommodation. He sure thought it all through, no doubt about that: now the Count's disappearance would not turn a single head. Should anyone of new acquaintances in the high circles miss him badly enough to inquiry about his absence, the servants hired by Gray's recommendations will easily testify that the master left London for an indefinite period of time. Say, he decided to taste a true English Christmas somewhere deep into the countryside. How quaint, ah, these foreigners! Even Miss Adler is likely to think something like that…

The only one who wouldn't stop looking for him, come high water or full war force, was Igor. But Igor was dead.

Count tried to find his loyal servant more than once, using their special connection, but his powers were confined by the spell cast around the mansion. Gray simply shrugged dispassionately: "He was just a mere servant, was he not? But if you cared so much for him, well, my condolences, then". If only Aurel could rip off his throat, he would do so with a song in his heart…

Having fastened his cufflinks and smoothened his doublet, he nodded at his reflection in the mirror before leaving the room. The hound, painful as it was to admit, was right about something: one day or another, the spell tying his hands would weaken. And then Aurel would not miss the opportunity, may it even be the last thing he would have time to do in his brief – in nosferatu's terms – existence. 

Dorian Gray's study was situated on the second floor. Aurel ran down the steps, turned into a hallway and took the door handle without knocking. 

Gray sat by the hotly burning fireplace, a book in his hands, and shook his head unhappily – perhaps, he had got mixed emotions from what he just read. A silver-ish tray lay on the table, a pile of letters half-covering it, some looking like Gray already opened and read them, too. The unfastened envelopes were pushed carelessly onto one side, unfolded sheets of paper, covered by small writing, mixed with gold-edged invitation cards. One of those must have drawn the landlord's special attention, as he put it to other side, weighing the paper down with a paper knife lest it got thrown to a bin by an accident. Making his way towards the vacant armchair, the Count had enough time to quickly go through the ligature of lines – it was an invitation to a charity Christmas recital. They seemed to plan for one, he remembered, at the ball in Lady Maude's mansion. Miss Adler was to take part, wasn't she? 

Dorian Gray amicably nodded at the guest in welcome and closed the book, marking the page he left off at. 

"Ah, it looks like you noted this invitation as well", – he said, following Aurel's look, and rose from his armchair. The nosferatu, on the contrary, sank into another one, taking his favourite posture: straight back, crossed hands, the cool aristocratic dignity personified. 

"The Christmas festivities are usually unbearably boring", – Gray divulged. There was a decanter next to the correspondence, filled with a tawny, silky-looking liquid, constantly changing hues. Pouring a little whisky into his glass, Dorian took a sip, clearly approved, and returned to his seat, glass in his hand, benevolent smile on his lips. "I won't ask you to join me, for, far as I know, your kind doesn't find any use in alcohol". 

"It does, – Aurel twisted his mouth. – The very same one as does yours. Only we don't take so much of it, nor does it influence us in any negative way". 

"One more advantage, – Gray muttered, all but inaudibly. – Will you join, then?"

"No", – the nosferatu answered curtly. 

Gray shrugged, as if saying "up to you", took another sip, then put his glass down and leaned back in his chair, scrutinising Aurel unwaveringly. The latter seemed to be completely enthralled by flames playing in the fireplace. The silence went on and on. 

Dorian became the first to break it: "Like I said, I am not much into Christmas festivities. They usually bring about painfully amateurish carols, receptions among the same, most venerable, yet long-past-their-welcome pillars of the society and constant talks about how important it is to show mercy and empathy to paupers-that-be. This year, I hope to serve my sentence by gracing just two invitations with my response. The time is the only kind of possession that cannot be replenished. Would you be so kind to help me choose where to go?"

"Why are you keeping me here?" – the Count asked.

Gray went for another helping from the decanter.

"We discussed this matter once already", – he noted.

"And I still don't have an answer", – Aurel reminded. 

"Being insistent is a virtue for young men of your age, – the landlord sneered. – Except that in this case, it's fruitless. Believe me, – he went on, – there is no ill feel on my part towards you, quite the contrary, and I mean you no harm at all. Moreover, once I reveal my plan to you, I am sure, you will approve and, perhaps, willingly participate".

The corner of Count's mouth jerked slightly. "Reveal it to me now". 

"Not yet, my young friend, – Gray laughed. – There is another virtue in this world, and that is patience. You are a guest here, Count, and, by the right of the host, I will ask you: are you satisfied? Do you like your room? How about the food?" 

"Thank you, – Aurel's voice dripped with poison. – Everything you mention is perfectly fine. And now, in turn, I will ask you, how soon will I have the chance to leave?" 

Gray thoughtfully shook his glass a little to stir the contents. 

"You will not have to wait for much longer", – he said, fishing a narrow piece of paper out of his pocket – a telegram. Aurel tried to make out the print script, but before he could read a word, Dorian Gray crumpled the paper and threw it to the fire. "How would you like a chess game?" – he suggested. 

There was, indeed, an antiquated-looking chess set on a table nearby. Two armies of set-pieces, black and white, stood in full front-lines, waiting for a signal to charge. 

"Alack a day, Mr Gray, – Aurel answered, – I must decline. I've got an infernal headache".


	16. Alan Campbell

Professor Van Helsing offered his lady companion a hand to help her out of a cab. Mrs Turner gracefully accepted it, stepping out on the cobbles near the main entrance to Kings Cross Railway Station.

As usual for the season, the station embodied the living hell for any innocent passer-by. Hundreds upon hundreds of commuters moved incessantly in all directions, arriving in equipages and omnibuses, with or without multiple cases of luggage, hurrying about, arguing with porters, chatting amongst each other, buying something or other from the stalls, traders keeping their posts at the approaches of Kings Cross like Hannibal's troops under the walls of eternal city of Rome. Streams of people flowed everywhere – towards the platforms, cafes, ticket tills, schedule tables, and, of course, exits. 

The holidays drew to London even those who tended to spend the rest of the year out of it. Some wanted to visit families and friends, have a good time, celebrating among their own. Others dropped by for a short while, only to return, weighed down by the load of gifts, bought in the capital. 

Pausing briefly, Professor looked at the round clock face that completed the façade of Kings Cross, laconic and even ascetic next to Saint Pancras nearby. 

These two stations resembled the double-faced Janus: on the one hand, formal British neo-Gothic style, endless array of fine detail and luxurious décor, dozens of countries and eras rolled in one, in the form of Saint Pancras, looking back to the past; on the other, simplicity and clarity, functional geometry, glass and steel concrete comprising Kings Cross, turned towards the future. It was all but appearances though: the ancient look masked the steely frames, whereas Quibitt-designed Kings Cross façade was 20 years older than its neighbour. 

The human streams got ever wider and more intense, threatening to get to the stage of flooding: it became harder to manoeuvre in them by a second. Nevertheless, Professor Van Helsing, courteously supporting Mrs Turner by the elbow and gripping her kitbag in another hand, overcame the obstacles and traversed the reefs with a confidence of trained pilot. 

Leaving the tills behind, they headed to the Western platform, where quite a crowd already gathered, waiting for the Leeds train. The entrance was guarded by a rail attendant in the station's uniform. Mrs Turner, taking a short time to search the recesses of her reticule, presented him with a ticket.

The attendant, giving a polite nod, instructed: "To the right and down to the end of the train". 

"There's still fifteen minutes left before the departure, – Van Helsing said.– If you wish, we could have a meal in the café or buy something for the journey".

"No way, – the elderly lady's chin jerked up. – I have a very good idea what they serve in such places! As for the stilling my hunger along the way, I took care of this alright". With this, he took her kitbag from Professor's hand and made a show of holding it tightly against her stomach. 

"Professor Van Helsing! Mrs Turner! – A familiar silhouette separated from the crowd and quickly made way towards them. – I'm glad you got here that soon". 

"Good day, Mr Harker, – Mrs Turner greeted her tenant warmly. – Words cannot do justice to the gratitude I feel to you and the Professor for all the trouble you took for me. It is incredibly kind of you". 

"Ah, Mrs Turner, – Van Helsing intoned bombastically, – is it not the duty of any honest Christian and decent human being?"

The landlady gave a stilted chuckle and gently slapped Professor's hand in approval. 

"Your luggage is already in its place, – Jonathan reported meanwhile. – No worries right until Leeds. Heaters should be arriving any minute now, and, hopefully, you will have a pleasant journey".

"You better believe it! – Mrs Turner exclaimed. – I travelled by first class last time when my dear husband was still with us. What a nice trip this was, if a rather expensive one. If not for your great favour, I would have to celebrate Christmas away from my daughter and grandchildren, again. And now I will be there with them, and even have a queen's way of getting there, too! May you, gentlemen, have as great a time, as well", – she summed up with a feeling. 

"We'll do our best", – Jonathan assured in a magnificently serious tone of voice, making the old lady chuckle again.

They reached the doors of first class sleeper together. 

"Don't spoil Annie too much, she's a smart girl, but way too modern in her ways, got all those ideas. You better keep her in check, so she does what she has to. The only thing I regret is not being there to make a proper Christmas dinner for you",.. – she fell silent for a short while

"Oh, don't you worry about that, – Van Helsing smiled gently. – Jonathan and I are both invited to the festive meal at the Society of Natural History Cognoscenti."

Mrs Turner shook her head thoughtfully. She was evidently in great doubt about some upstart Society having any chance to ever come close to the heights of culinary mastery her kitchen boasted. 

Having one more time wished Van Helsing and Jonathan the merriest festive time, the lady settled in her cabin. It turned out her fellow traveller was also an elderly lady, bound to the same Leeds destination. They immediately found a common theme to discuss and were well into a most vivid gossiping even before the departure was signalled.

Finally, the wheels shuddered, moving slowly at first, as if despite themselves, but faster and faster along the way. The coaches went forward. Mrs Turner waved to Jonathan and Professor, both bowed in response. Soon, they were off her sight, as the train got away from under the transparent half-dome of the station and left the platform far behind. 

"Annie may still remain in the house, – Professor noted. – How much longer do we still have, Jonathan?"

"About a week, according to my calculations", – the lawyer responded.

"We have to prepare everything in time for the guest's arrival. Then, I think, Annie will be glad to have several days off and a chance to spend the festive time with her family. Not to mention a small bonus for all her diligence. We will have to do without servants for a while, Jonathan. Can we manage, what do you think?"

The young man snorted. "We can, for certain. Of course, if we won't go setting ourselves some impossible tasks such as to meet the high requirements of Mr Igor".

Van Helsing slapped the companion's shoulder in approval.

They left the station, Professor looked at the clock once again, then got out his own pocket watch. 

"Either my watches are a minute and a half late, or this clock is getting ahead of itself", – he noted.

"Hopefully, Geoffrey will not take an umbrage to such a substantial delay", – Jonathan responded.

Geoffrey Campbell owned a two-storey brick house in Bedford Road he inherited from his father, complete with a stake in the family's business. The building was meant for a big happy family, but for three years already it had only housed Geoffrey himself and the personnel. Yet everyone knew these bachelor days were numbered. 

Geoffrey opened the doors to the guests himself and invited them in.

"Learning the ropes of butler's work?" – Jonathan inquired in the hall after the first hellos and handshakes. 

"You never know", – his boon companion responded in kind, helping him out of the coat. Still, a servant instantly appeared next to them, taking the coats and hats to settle those on the hangers. The guests headed to the dinner room, accompanied by their host. "Francis, my porter, is in charge of preparing the house for Eliza's arrival. This place hasn't seen a landlady for a long time, so we have to get it in order before my wife steps in, lest she runs away in horror. Meanwhile, on to the dining hall we go, to give the aperitif and snacks their fair due until the main meal is served". 

"Frankly, I expected you to be married by now", – Jonathan remarked between the first and second dishes. 

Geoffrey just shrugged. "So did I. When we left the courtroom, we were fully prepared to go straight off to the priest for the ceremony. But I was told then and there, in no uncertain terms, that this would not be appropriate. Oh, romantic enough, no doubt, especially in the eyes of reporters who lost such a great headline with me not being hanged and all, but completely improper. At times I'm glad I have no relatives and can make my decision without looking up to anybody for approval, but her father is right, of course. We will go about the marriage as befits the persons of our circle", – the young man spoke the last words in such a different tone of voice, with such a haughtily thrown-up head, it was instantly clear he was mimicking somebody from the aforesaid elder relatives. 

"On the other hand, – Van Helsing chimed in, – your love overcame such a terrifying obstacle as a jail term due to unjust accusation, what can some waiting in order to accommodate the conventions do to it?"

"I have a license already! – Geoffrey boasted. – We'll marry after Christmas. January will be our most celebratory month. By the way, remind me to hand you the invitation, I don't want post service to be involved. I wouldn't put it past them to deliver it after the marriage".

"You mean, without invitation, I may well not even bother to turn up?" – Jonathan grinned.

"You're such a joker, Harker, – Geoffrey sounded genuinely hurt. – After what you and Mr Van Helsing did for me, I am forever in your debt".

"Don't say such things, Mr Campbell, – Professor said quietly. – Demanding retribution for help is not a friend's thing to do".

"But if there's anything I can…"

Van Helsing just shook his head.

After dinner, Geoffrey invited his guests to the library, explaining that the reception was at the peak of refurbishment works. 

The last bastion of the bachelorism in the form of book castle kept its stand admirably. High cases stood shoulder to shoulder, like the remaining warriors, determined to weather it all; the carpet on the floor was severely plain; high-backrests of the armchairs just beckoned to discuss politics or latest news while keeping elocution alive with a drop or two of brandy or whisky. 

"You have a magnificent book collection, Mr Campbell", – professor approved.

"Thank you. You are a book lover, are you not?"

"I am a scientist, my dear Mr Campbell…"

"Just Geoffrey, please".

"…My dear Geoffrey. So passing a good library by is beyond my powers". 

"Geoffrey pulled me out of a lot of jams in my student times, – Jonathan noted. – Only thanks to his help and books he lent me I passed the jus civile at the first attempt".

"Was chemistry on the curriculum, too?" – Van Helsing asked. 

"Thank God, it wasn't, – the lawyer shook his head and quickly added, – no offence meant to science, Professor". 

"I saw some works on physical chemistry as we entered", – Professor elaborated, letting the assistant's remark go unanswered. 

Geoffrey coughed, flummoxed. "It's not my books. Or rather, they are now, but they belonged to Alan first, it was his purchased. My elder cousin, Alan Campbell, I mean. You might have heard of him".

"Wait, – Van Helsing leaned closer. – Alan? Alan Campbell? That Alan Campbell?" 

Jonathan gave Geoffrey a puzzled look, then turned to the Professor, raising his eyebrows. 

"It's a small world in scientific circles, and almost everybody knows everybody there, if not in person, then by hearsay. Especially if we are talking about such a talented minds as that of Mr Alan Campbell. I read his articles on chemistry and biology, his conclusions were ingenious, bold even, he was never shy of pushing the envelope, challenging not just the set dogmas but the nature itself. His death shook the scientific society – such a terrible loss for it. I seem to remember, not long before his death he was going to either disprove Ostwald's theory or confirm him…"

"Don't look at me, dear Professor, – Geoffrey said. – All talents of our family were inherited by Alan alone". After a pause, he went on thoughtfully: "You know, we were never that close. It happens with cousins, especially in cases like ours. Alan was older, he got into the science early in life and quickly earned recognition. His star burned brightly, as a poet would say – though, coming to think of it, it's not what a good poet would say. When the family came together for holidays, he visited just out of decency, leaving at first opportunity, to reunite with his beloved scientific research, or visit some high society reception where he was just as welcome. We could never aim that highly. Why, for a while Alan was even quite friendly with Dorian Gray!"

"I didn't know that", – Van Helsing said, and only those knowing him really well could tell something more than polite interest to his voice. – I heard about Mr Gray, but that he was also into natural sciences, well, that's a news to me".

Geoffrey just waved his hand. "Everyone and their aunt are into science these days – especially when ancient mysteries are involved. Science today took place of magic: the men of research, having armed themselves with bulbs and microscopes, keep trying to single out the essence of powers wielded by magicians of old".

"To distil it and sell an ounce per pound, – Van Helsing smiled. – I understand this striving. There are so many things in this world we still don't know about, and even what we believed to have clear knowledge of could appear in a complete new light the very next day. The universe is infinitely bigger, more complex and holds more wonders than we can imagine right now". 

"Alan went about studying mummies once, – Geoffrey remembered. – Not from historical point of view, though, but in terms of chemistry. He even bought some at an auction, bargained like crazy, and all because of inscriptions on their sarcophagi. He mentioned briefly that he was after some sort of potion by ancient priests. It appears, Dorian Gray also was fascinated with Ancient Egypt. Oh yes, and they were on quite close terms for some time, at first due to common ground in science, then became pals, but something happened. What exactly, I can't say – the cousin wasn't the type to expand on personal matters, and sure I wouldn't pry. All I know is that there was some exceedingly unpleasant business which changed Alan's mind as regards to Dorian Gray". He fell silent, as if gathering his thoughts. "About two years ago, Alan dropped by and we exchanged news. I don't even remember when and on what cause Gray's name surfaced in our chat. But once it did… well, I had never before seen such a rage and disgust as the cousin displayed then. ‘Look, Geoffrey, – he said. – Never ever come close to Dorian Gray. This ruffian destroys everything he touches, spreads around rot and decay. For the love of all you hold sacred, steer well clear'. I didn't get much out of it at the time, and I never had the chance to know more. Two days later Alan committed suicide". 

"My God", – Jonathan whispered.

"That was talked about a lot in the society, – Geoffrey said. – Gray came to the funeral, exuding condolence". 

For some time, silence reigned in the library. Geoffrey refilled her glass and went deep into sad reminiscence, forgetting to take even a sip. Jonathan and Van Helsing exchanged glances, thinking of the same thing at once. 

"Did your cousin take care to leave any will?" – the Professor's question resembled of a sudden shot, tearing Geoffrey Campbell out of his reverie. 

"Yes he did. He once joked that chemical tests were not the safest of occupations so, better safe than sorry, he'd rather have his affairs in order, just in some sudden unfortunate case. A hefty chunk of his estate went to his college – he wanted them to continue with his research – and the remaining part was passed down to the remaining relatives, of which I was one. These books… I probably should have to hand them over to scientists, but – colour me sentimental – I wanted to keep something as a way of remembrance. I took them from their shelves once or twice, leafed through, could make heads or tails of it – all Hebrew to me – yet for Alan, it was clear as day. He left oodles of marks and notes at the margins, half of them deriding the authors, mind. Basically, calling them idiots". 

Van Helsing smiled gently. "Young and talented, – he sighed. – That's one explosive combination". 

"There are some personal possessions, on top of books, – Geoffrey imparted suddenly. – Some brick-a-brac, and papers, too. I started to sort them out after the funerals – wanted to learn more about Alan. Even went about reading his diary, but there are so many scientific notes and formulae, I put it away in the end. Still hoped to read it out one day, though…" He finally sipped some brandy. "At times it looks like a kind of a cruel fate to me: first Alan dies, then this horrible ordeal befalling me – arrested, then jailed, then trialled…"

Jonathan rose from his chair and come over to his comrade. "There is no such thing as fate, – he looked down at him. – Human will is stronger than any supernatural powers". 

"Don't let herself sink into dark thoughts, Geoffrey, – Van Helsing sounded earnest. – Besides, you have a completely new life ahead of you, and you will walk it hand in hand with your beloved. I saw Miss Eliza in the courtroom, so I know what I'm talking about. You will be happy together, you mark my words".

"That I do believe", – the young man's voice was just as serious. Jonathan smiled sadly. The Professor gave him a wistful, knowing look. 

Aloud, he said: "You mentioned some personal records your cousin kept. Will it be a horrible breach of decorum on my part to ask your permission to have a look at them?"

"Not at all. I have them in my study. I believe, Alan would be glad to share his ideas with his fellow scientist. Such a pity you never made his personal acquaintance".

Van Helsing nodded. "A pity, indeed".

Geoffrey Campbell was courteous enough to allow the Professor to borrow Alan's diaries for several days in order to study his scientific observations – those could, after all, contain some important discoveries.

Jonathan packed away thick leather-bound notebooks and pondered. For sure, there was more to Professor Van Helsing's interest than fascination with physical chemistry. He made a mental note for himself, too, to try and find out more about the talented chemist's suicide. This was a high-profile case, so bound to attract some close scrutiny. His intuition kept nagging at him: it was not a random accident that the name of Dorian Gray turned up in this mix.

Back home, first thing off Van Helsing took the diaries to his room and suggested he'd meet his companion in the reception, just after he checked in on the patient. 

Once again, tall clumsy figure in long-tailed coat filtered to the hall. Naturally, Eric didn't bother to remove his heat or unwind the scarf covering his face. 

"I take it, there is no dinner planned for today? – he inquired, business-like. – Back in Paris, I often forgot the staff of life, what with being preoccupied by loftier goals than filling up my stomach. Now, though, I work out and about, in relatively fresh air, not to mention a very strange London's climate. It evokes an appetite of inhumanly strength".

"Not at all, – the lawyer shook his head. – Igor was kind enough to cook a wonderful ragout. Go then and give his art its fair due". 

The former Phantom of the Opera looked towards the kitchen askew, not without an interest. Indeed, even after a solid meal, it would be a chore to disregard such a rich aroma. Sure enough, Eric did not need another invitation: placing the hat and coat on the hangers with the confidence of a landlord, he stuffed his scarf into his pocket and resolutely made his way in the direction of the tempting relish's source. 

"At times, I am struck by the cheek of our French guest", – the lawyer murmured when the assistant disappeared into the kitchen.

It was still working hours at the Westminster police station where his old acquaintance served, so, having popped down a brief note, Jonathan handed it to a boy hopping near the house. The messenger was charged with waiting out for an answer under any circumstances and promised a bonus for speedy delivery, after which the urchin bolted away at lightning speed. 

Jonathan closed the door behind him and headed to the reception.

"Just a minute, my friend!" – Professor moved his head towards Igor, sitting nearby. 

An open Breguet ticked loudly, counting seconds, and the patient's pulse responded in kind. 

Igor suffered through the procedure with immovable face, thanked the Professor politely, smoothened his cuff, buttoned his jacket tightly and ran his hand over his bald head, as if straightening down a non-existent mane of hair. 

"I sent a message to one police acquaintance, – the lawyer informed. – I hope he'll help us out with what is known about his chemist's suicide". 

"Whereas I am not busy at the University for the next several days, – Van Helsing responded. – I plan to spend my free time well, hammering out the diaries of Mr Campbell. I dare hope that I'll fare better with their contents than did your friend Geoffrey". 

"Do you think this tragedy has any links to the kidnapping of Count? I don't see anything common between the two…"

"It by all means is linked to the characteristics of Mr Gray's personality, – Van Helsing said categorically. – And we need to know about him as much as possible right now".

The door opened noiselessly – again. 

"In fact, – Eric pronounced, – I do have certain information about Mr Gray".

"Have had dinner already?" – Jonathan asked ironically. 

"For the sake of saving time – which is what any savings come down to, in the end, – I chose not to wait for the table to be properly served", – the French responded, heading towards a free armchair. Having settled down and made sure that he had got all the attention, he began: "I go on watching the house. The day before yesterday I started to suspect something and today my suspicions were confirmed. Mr Gray has got into problems as far as personnel are concerned. Several maids were sacked. Oh, they have received glowing references and a handsome pay-off. Yet there is no known cause for the firing. Far as I know from talking to the junior valet, a new maid is expected any day from a servant recruitment agency". 

Van Helsing leaned forward.

"Did you notice anything unusual? When the maids left Mr Gray's house, were they all well?"

Eric shrugged slightly. 

"I have nothing to report here, sir. I didn't speak to them, but they looked pale to me, is all". 

"Are you implying, – Jonathan turned to Van Helsing, – that they…"

"They might have served as sustenance for the Count. – Van Helsing removed his glasses, closed his eyes and pressed his fingers against his eyelids. Putting the glasses back on again, he asked Igor: -How often does your master require blood?"

"Master Aurel is to feed one time in several day, to drink not a lot, – Igor answered. – It is healthier than to have one meal and a long break. Master Aurel is to say that any young man with self-respect must keep his diet, lest he is to get a red face, like the aunt Veronica". 

"Apparently, this lady's self-control leaves something to be desired", – Van Helsing smiled. A slight shadow falling across Igor's face indicated that the Professor was correct. Jonathan felt like listening in to Van Helsing's thoughts – it was clear enough that the latter was eager to study the nosferatus' mysterious physiology. Something like malicious joy fired up the young lawyer's senses: if nosferatus viewed Professor as a dinner, he in turn considered them as a sort of guinea pigs. 

"We really need someone of our own in the house", – Eric drawled and fell deep into thought. Jonathan even turned around to see for himself, what exactly drew their strange company's attention. "I think I will be able to get in. Gray just ordered to expand the mansion's guard".

"I fail to see the connection", – Professor shook his head.

"He hires particular watchmen, – behind the dispassionate mask covering the face, there was rather discernible sneer colouring the voice. – The kind which is not just unafraid to face the supernatural, but habitually chases it, armed and determined to destroy. Some of them have already arrived, but he's still recruiting". 

"You think you will be able to pass as one of those… hunters?" – Jonathan asked.

"I have already done, – Eric replied condescendingly. – Back in the days of my European journeys, I used to mingle with people like that. I am well aware of their customs, so I had no trouble convincing Gray's aide – by the way, a rather sickening specimen. All I had to do was to show what I am capable of and tell a few tall tales. Didn't even prove necessary to mention the ancestors who tracked down the Jevodan beast, although, the Almighty knows, I was sorely tempted". 

Despite the gravity of the matter, smiles touched the lips of all the present company. 

"I will manage to get into the mansion, – Eric repeated. – The only thing left: the hunters do not associate with the prisoner, they even are forbidden to enter the wing Count is kept in. Only Gray meets him, plus his aide and… the maids. If only there was a lady among us…"

"Oh", – was all the response Van Helsing could produce. Jonathan turned to look at him… and then the realisation dawned. Yes. If only a lady was among them… Only, he cut this track of thoughts off, they were gentlemen. At least, some of them. No way they would allow a lady be exposed to the insides of Gray's house, especially considering the circumstances. 

"Of course, we would never place her in any danger", – Van Helsing echoed his thoughts, while thoughtfully biting a bridge of his glasses. 

"In Shakespeare's times, – Eric, the recognised connoisseur of theatrical arts, raised his index finger with a meaning, – men played not just male parts, but female ones as well". 

He glanced at Jonathan, who immediately felt awkward under this pert and, it seemed, slightly mocking look. Professor Van Helsing's eye followed that of Eric, and Jonathan felt positively uncomfortable. But what proved downright embarrassing, was an appraising stare from Igor…

"Forget it!" – Jonathan exclaimed, jumped to his feet and went over to the fireplace.

"Believe you me, the modern level of theatre make-up works wonders!" – Eric said.

"My friend! Think of the opportunities your… impersonation would open to us! – Van Helsing persuaded. – What openings! Our man in the house, grown-up, sensible man who is fully aware of the dangers involved should he be found out…" 

Jonathan kept a sullen silence. He was more scared of the prospect involving becoming a woman. Anything but that. Compared to that, he would rather agree to find himself in the house of the notorious count, alone with… As faces of the vampire's concubines resurfaced in his memory, Jonathan felt drops of icy sweat down his spine. It seemed, "anything but" was an exaggeration. Turning into a woman for a while suddenly stopped to look quite so preposterous and perverse as it did just a minute ago. 

"All the lawyers are actors at heart, – Eric's voice sounded insinuating. – And all the actors have got the love to disguise in their blood". 

"Well, then you disguise yourself!" – Jonathan snapped. Eric just burst out laughing.

Actually, upon giving this crazy idea of entering Gray's realm pretending to be a maidservant a serious consideration, Jonathan was indeed the only acceptable candidate out of them all. Unlike Professor Van Helsing, he was young, unlike Igor, he had a fit figure, and unlike Eric, possessed of a face to be made up in the first place. Jonathan raised his hand in surrender.

"Mr Harker is a good man, – Igor chimed in from his corner, – but a bad servant material".

"How do you mean?" – the young lawyer suddenly felt somewhat offended.

"A good servant is not a trade, – Igor shook his head. – A good servant is to come from heart". To be more convincing, he thumped on his chest, around where this important organ was positioned in his eyes. 

"Could you elaborate?" – Van Helsing asked.

"A good servant cares more about his master than himself. The master's suffering is his suffering, the master's happiness is his happiness".

"You are a good servant, Igor", – Van Helsing smiled.

Igor looked down demurely, not prepared to deny his obvious virtues.

"We don't need a good servant, – Eric waved his hand impatiently. – A maidservant is all we need".

"Master Harker is not to be a maid, – Igor declared resolutely. – He is to look, to speak, to move as a master, not as a servant".

"Exactly", – Jonathan sighed, inwardly thanking Igor.

"You would be an invaluable adviser in this matter, no doubt, – Van Helsing noted, – with an experience like yours".

Igor cast his eyes down again and Jonathan realised, with a sinking feeling, that the disguise beckoned in any event. Well then… at least, he'd better enjoy the heck out of it. Let's call it a masquerade – or taking part in a play. Oh yes! Students often staged some comic pieces, though Jonathan never became involved more than with a bit parts consisting of couple of phrases. 

The former Phantom dropped in to Annie's room. Jonathan was made to remove his jacket and waistcoat, forced into an apron and adorned with a wiglet. 

Igor threw himself at the task, but in about a quarter of an hour he ruled that Herr Harker "was to be nearly entirely hopeless", whereas Jonathan begged for a tea. With brandy. More brandy than tea, to be precise. Igor was not one to yield, though, and made his charge bring the tray in himself, and in the way it was supposed to be done. 

"Serving tea is not part of the job requirements!" – Jonathan tried to protest, but Igor was inexorable. In the end, the lawyer finally did get his usual clothes back and, having received his well-earned cup of tea accompanied with a plate of biscuits, he leaned back in his armchair. 

"Well, it's a shame that we couldn't come up with a decent maidservant among the lot of us, but it doesn't mean the idea itself is hopeless, – Van Helsing exuded optimism. – Dozens of servants would be required in a house like Dorian Gray's mansion, men and women alike. Think of the kitchen, for example. I went to scientific expeditions where we had to fend for ourselves in a lot of respects. I can make a fine porridge and, surely, I can do everything a senior cook has to do". 

"You are to be hopeless, – the Transylvanian shook his head sternly. – One mix-up of spices, and to be fired then and there. Is all". 

"Welcome to the club", – Jonathan saluted to the Professor with his biscuit.

Eric gave a short impish laugh, bit Igor shook his head again. 

"Herr Professor is to be entirely hopeless, and Herr Harker, nearly entirely so, – he corrected punctiliously. – Herr Harker is to have some talents, but they are to be honed and honed! I would be to make a good servant of you, there is one way".

"Oh?" – the Professor leaned forward with interest.

Igor jerked his chin up and intoned solemnly: " Еxerzieren! One year of exerzieren, and Herr Harker is to be a junior valet. – His predatory look sent involuntary shivers down Jonathan's spin. – Two years of exerzieren, and he is to be a senior valet. Three years of exerzieren …"

"…And I am to be a corpse", – Jonathan sighed, rising from his armchair and pouring more tea to his emptied cup.

The doorbell rang in the middle of discussions re: various schemes of entering Dorian Gray's house, accompanied with tea. Igor personally went down to the hall to open the door, take Miss Adler's fur coat and escort her to the reception.

Irene greeted Professor Van Helsing, in the corner of her eye watching Mr Harker hastily push some sort of white bundle behind the mantelshelf. When he kissed her hand, she found his bashfulness positively charming. 

She was given a seat of honour, offered a tea, lavished with care and attention. Being a gentleman definitely appealed to Jonathan much more than the role of maidservant. 

Irene answered Professor's questions, while her eye was drawn back to Mr Harker once and again. They had met in tragic circumstances and it was no overstatement to say that he had her life in his hands. She was infinitely grateful to him and was sincerely glad to see him again. It appeared, he was happy to see her too. 

"You see, Professor, – Irene piped in between the two sips of tea, – I am worried about your mutual acquaintance, the Count. He vanished. Doesn't show his face in the society, wrote a funny note to me, something about getting bored with London… Do you have anything to tell me regarding this?" She looked Van Helsing straight in the eye. 

Jonathan looked at his companion. The latter ran his finger along his cup's edge. 

"I believe, my dear Miss Adler, as you are much more aware of matters related to the Count than others, there is no point in keeping this from you", – Van Helsing said. Jonathan shook his head in reproach. 

"Has he been into some sort of mischief? – Irene asked. – Did he… did he do something?"

"He was kidnapped", – Jonathan responded curtly. Irene looked at him in surprise.

"But… the note?" 

"I suppose he was forced to write to you, very likely not you alone, in order to keep inquiring minds from going in search of him". 

"Do you know who kidnapped him, and why?"

"Yes and yes, Miss Adler".

Irene decisively put away her cup. Her chin jerked up. 

"Professor, – she said, – there is no need for me to remind how great a debt I owe you. You are in a plight – I can see it in your eyes. If only I can help, please, do not hesitate asking. You know my worth as an ally", – she added, in a quieter voice. 

"It looks like, – Eric, who somehow managed to stay quiet and still throughout the conversation so far, suddenly produced a sound, – now we can solve our little servant problem without involving Mr Harker, who, evidently, didn't like the idea very much". 

"Never! – Jonathan's indignation was palpable. – You are right, I am not fond of the idea, but that matters not a bit. To suggest Miss Adler would do as you were going to ask her is, at the very least, gravely irresponsible!" 

"I was not going to ask for anything", – the former Phantom's shoulder twitched some. 

"Oh hello, Mr Eric, – Miss Adler gave him a stately nod. – Sorry, I did not notice you at first". She turned back to Van Helsing: "I can at least offer an advice. Women are much better informed in some respects". 

She was imparted with the essence of their predicament, with much care about the choice of words. They even lamented the lack of suitable candidates in their midst. Despite the bleakness of overall situation, Irene had some trouble keeping her face straight. 

"I will go there," – she concluded finally. 

"No!" – came a threefold response. Eric abstained from the improvised vote. 

"Yes, – the young woman's voice was just as firm. – From what I just heard, the young women who communicated with the Count came to no harm, did they?"

"Not so far", – the Professor said with a meaning.

"The Count will not hurt me. It appears, he even likes me somewhat". 

"It's not just about the Count, – Jonathan reminded. – According to Monsieur Eric, the whole affair was arranged by Mr Gray himself, aided by some dangerous types. It is too much of a risk, Miss Adler, way too much. Besides, you met Mr Gray before, he will recognise you instantly…"

Irene smiled and rose. She went over to the little table, lifted a tray from it and exited the room. A minute later, a strange woman appeared in the doorway, tray in her hands, and by some uncanny reason, this newcomer was dressed and combed just the way Miss Adler was. 

"I used to be an actress, gentlemen, – she said in a voice which even sounded strange. – And theatre is nothing if not an art of deception".


	17. Return of Count D

The cold was disgusting. A pricking mix of the air filled the lungs the way swamp waters might, so the human body was torn between the need of breathing and aversion to the icy humidity penetrating it. Coats were of no use, fingertips in gloves grew numb. The last circle of the Hell – that of ice. 

It was him who chose this place, the 20-years-out-of-use repair docks, the dwelling of rats, broken hopes and shadows. Other harbour districts, the hubs of sin Gray frequented chasing the lost adrenaline buzz, felt like full of light and happiness in comparison. But this awful place was just in the right accordance with the deal for which a dazzling man of society came to the city's outskirts in a hired coach. 

The waiting drew on. Gray started to feel tired and for a moment leaned on a wall, only to recoil with a squeamish wince: it appeared to be clammy. He tried to clean the trail off his coat, but the miniscule bits of unknown substance proved stubborn enough, getting deeper into the clothes instead of falling away. Quitting the vain attempts, Gray decided on getting rid of his particular coat just as he comes back home. He might give it to some servant or just destroy completely – there was little chance of him wanting to put this back on, ever. 

He struck a match to light the watch face – perhaps, this move amused his companions. The waiting that played havoc with Dorian Gray's nerves, did not bother them at all.

There were two of them. Tall, strong, gloomy. They kept aside, in the shadows. No unneeded questions asked, no inner thoughts revealed. Always on the ready for a deadly strike. The names they gave him were hardly those they were christened with, and this did not matter either. They hunted beings more dangerous than any wild beast, and even Nikolae showed some respect towards them. 

The werewolf wanted to come with them, assuring the master that he would be of better protection. It might be so, but what would happen when Nikolae would come face to face with a sworn enemy? No. The loyal servant would yet have his chance to quench his thirst for blood, but later. When Gray would get what he craved. 

The hunters-cum-bodyguards froze nearby. From the time they all arrived, they spoke hardly more than couple of dozens words between them, but each played their regular part, keeping the employer safe. Would their skills prove a match to the strength of a monster? Asking himself this question, Gray suddenly realised something strange: he actually wanted to test it. He wanted to see first-hand what by now he could but imagine from the tales of his servant. 

The waiting was becoming ever more tiring. 

Having looked at his watch again, Gray slammed the cover shut and put his hands in his pockets. Perhaps, he thought acidly, good manners were not included in the list of virtues as drawn by the continental noblefolk. He could but hope that the Transylvanian count, savage that he was inside, would not stoop as low as to cancel the meeting without warning.

"He's near", – softly, almost in a whisper, one hunter informed, triggering up his crossbow. A heavy hatchet instantly appeared in the hand of his colleague, a blade sharpened, it seemed, well enough to cut even an oak branch in perfectly equal pieces. Having readied their weapons, both bodyguards took their positions. Dorian Gray gave both of them a mildly surprised look – he heard not a thing yet. 

He did soon enough. 

Perhaps, Gray himself couldn't explain what it was exactly that he expected. May be a wild animal materialising from the shadows, or rustling of leathery wings, or blow of a storm? What he did hear, though, were steps, not hollow, nor heavy, as if signalling appearance of Doom, but quick and energetic, evidently those of a man, and perfectly… ordinary. 

"Must be some worker", – he muttered, looking away.

Someone passed the dock, stopped, turned his head this way and that, as if verifying his location. Then the grey light gap got eclipsed by a tall dark figure – a man, his head bare despite the humid cold, in a loose black cape, which went out of fashion long before Dorian Gray was born.

The bodyguards stepped forward in concert, taking their aim, but the man, who covered the distance between them all but in a second, stopped in his tracks.

"What an odious place!" – he said with clear sincerity, in thickly accented English. Gracing both hunters, one after another, with an appraising look, he pulled his upper lip up a bit. "So, a personal guard, then, isn't it? You are not overly hospitable, Mr Gray".

"A sensible precaution, is all, – Dorian Gray responded unflappably. – Are you the Count Dracula?"

"Dracula I am", – the other answered and put his hand into cape's pocket.

A hunter moved forward, but the vampire waved him away like an annoying fly.

The cape must have been designed by some ancient mage who endowed its pockets with endless capacity: Dracula kept going through them, obviously looking for something, to no avail, which irritated him immensely. Finally, somewhere from the vast recesses of the garment, a well-worn piece of paper was produced. The count ostentatiously brandished it in the air, calling for attention, then pushed it all but under Gray's nose.

"And I expect explanation!" This righteous indignation was worthy of an aristocratic club's chairman who just learned of a blatant breach of the rules by one of its members. 

Suddenly, all words and phrases carefully set up for this meeting flew out of Dorian Gray's memory. The wealth of information received from Nikolae's stories and books he studied when readying himself for the encounter with a vampire was full of warnings about treacherous nature of these creatures, but Gray rather expected outright threats. Yet, the first move was made by Dracula, and now the ball was in his opponent's court.

Taking the pitiful remnants of his own telegram from the count's hands (naturally, it was his very own message to Transylvania), Gray gave the visitor a look of polite blankness. 

"Where is Aurel? – Dracula asked harshly. – What happened to him?"

"The Count is my guest. He is being received with every imaginable comfort. All the entertainment available at my place is at his disposal, and, trust me, it is not something to sneeze at. Now, he is restricted in his movement somewhat, I grant you that, painful as it is to me to admit. But it won't last long. I only resorted to such means out of sheer necessity. You see, my dear Count, I am in real need of your prudence being safeguarded". 

Nosferatu stood still, without so much as even stirring, but, out of the blue, a cold shiver went down Gray's spine, and this chill did not feel like an effect of the disgusting weather. The worldly façade was becoming ever harder to maintain. 

"You do realise, don't you, – Dracula purred confidentially, – that it would take me less than two seconds to gut you?"

There was a mocking grunt and clank of metal from where the hunters stood, but the count didn't even look there. 

"I do", – Dorian Gray responded in a low voice, feeling a silver crucifix in his own pocket getting heavier. An Italian job, he remembered, blessed by the Pope himself, some four centuries ago. It was not one of his most extraordinary possessions, mind, even a trivial one, by the standards of his collection, but he was advised to take it with him for this particular rendezvous. "But the moment I'll die, so will your son, and it will not be an easy death. Swift one, that much is true, but these fleeting moments will feel like ages to him". Gray pulled his coats' sleeves slightly up, revealing his cuffs to the vampire. Those were enwreathed in black ornament of a tattoo, and it appeared as if something scarlet burned low under the wide, boldly drawn lines. "Surely, you will appreciate my solution". 

Dracula's eyes narrowed. 

"I have recognised the sort you are consorting with, – he spat squeamishly, just barely nodding towards the bodyguards, who tensed immediately. – I have no doubts that this hound did his best to tell it all about…"

"How your kind is killed? – Gray replied. – But of course. He is a wonderful servant and an extremely valuable informant. But I learned a lot myself, from books. There is an endless treasury of those accumulated throughout the ages of nosferatu's existence". 

"Have you read them all?" – the vampire sounded interested.

"Many of them, yes". 

"Even the history book?" 

Gray looked at his opponent in surprise, the latter grinned, obviously pleased at the reaction. 

"True enough, it's not all that well-styled. So, you had captured my… son and invited me to London, while being fully aware of possible consequences? I could take such attention as a compliment – after all, thought of our wild lands rarely occurs to the circles of enlightened gentlemen. What is it you are after, then?"

"Being brought across". 

Weeks of doubts and reflection, fears and hopes condensed into this one short phrase. So strange, Gray thought – he prepared for this encounter so carefully, he thought it all through to the slightest detail, except one: how exactly to express his only true wish… and yet it proved so easy in the end, to just say it. He was ready, indeed.

"That would mean a final farewell to the light of sun and stepping into eternal darkness", – Dracula spoke in a formal tone of voice, as if laying down the conditions of a contract. 

"I will enjoy the light of the moon", – Gray retorted, inwardly adding "for centuries". 

"Will you renounce your own God?"

"Are you not aware of him being dead?"

Dracula raised his eyes and shook his head in a feigned horror at Dorian's words. 

"I knew this poor stuff of a book couldn't escape your attention, – he said. – But then, why call me? Aurel could handle it by himself".

"I will not trust a boy with a task like that, – Gray responded coldly. – He is not nearly strong enough".

"To turn you? – Dracula laughed out loud. – Not much of a task at all". 

"To give me power! I want to be turned by someone more… experienced, capable of daring to go beyond reasonable, and mighty enough to succeed. It's not a little boy I need, oh no, I want the very best. Nothing less than you, that is". 

Then, he spoke heatedly, letting everything that haunted his thoughts for a long time run free. 

"You are in possession of amazing levels of sentience, you are out of time's decaying control, you can change your shape and rule the elements! Can I be faulted for striving for the same perfection? Is such a strive not part of human nature to begin with? And if the cost of such a chance is to abandon our familiar world, well, I am willing to pay. You ask me, why I did not choose your son, Count. The reason is, I have to be absolutely certain". 

"What will stop me from killing you afterwards?" 

"What would you gain from this?" – Gray sounded genuinely surprised.

"An insult can only be washed away with blood, – Dracula sneered predatorily. – You should know by now, what with all your research about me, that I am not a forgiving type, am exceedingly cruel, and, simply put, used to kill for much less than that". 

Dorian Gray looked the vampire up and down. "I expected this point, – he said, – and am ready to counter it. There is no need for us to quarrel, Count, it's much easier to forge an agreement. Once I have what I desire, you will have your son back, safe and sound. You might even share my London's pleasures". 

Dracula made a step back, in turn giving Gray the up and down. He tilted his head to one side, then to another, as if weighing up the task. 

"Deal, – he said. – Take off your coat". 

"What?"

"Your coat. Lest it gets stained with blood, – the vampire explained, running his thumb down his elongating fang. – It's turning you wanted, is it not? So why waste time? Besides, – he unfastened the cape's closing, – I haven't had any dinner today, so your proposal really comes in handy". 

Gray drew back in horror.

"Are we to have such an important rite in his filthy rat's hideaway?" 

"It was your choice, not mine, – the Count waved his hand. – It will not take much time, two or three minutes at most. Granted, I made some exceptions in my time for delightful young maids, – his eyes went misty with memories. – But you, Mr Gray, are hardly a maiden, and I would rather settle this matter as soon as possible. Then I will take my son".

"No, – Dorian snapped. – I want to be brought across in my own home".

"Agreed, – Dracula nodded easily, fastening his cape again. – I spotted an equipage nearby, waiting for you, I take it? Not to worry, I am not fishing for invitation, just tell me where you live and I will arrive personally…"

"In several days, – Gray's voice was icy. – I will let you know where and when".

"Oh, – the vampire drawled disappointedly. – Of course. You would need some town to bid farewell to your past. As one lady I made an acquaintance of – not to name names, – once said, "to meet your last dawn and last dusk". Though, no offence, there is not much in the way of sunlight in London anyway. Not that I disapprove, quite the contrary…" 

Gray did not grace him with an answer, confining himself to a brief disgusted grimace. Upon his sign, bodyguards stepped forward.

With a short piercing laugh, Dracula shook his head again, not unlike a father watching his sons being naughty. 

Suddenly, his dark silhouette rippled, shedding colours, clear contours softened, flowing into watercolours' drops falling on wet canvass. Wind blew out of nothing, catching the half-transparent figure and in a split second tore it in thin, foggy strands. Next second, the mist filled up the entire place, sticking in the eyes and ears, whispering: "I will let you know where I stay". 

With the next blow, all the fog flew away, leaving Gray, as white as a sheet, his hands shaking and heart racing, all alone with his guards. 

Having fumbled in his pocket, he fished out the cigar box, struck a match, got no fire from either this or the next one, and only at third attempt he managed to lit a thin cigar, inhaling the soothing tobacco smoke. 

"A rare beast, – one hunter muttered, his eyes fixed on the light gap where the Count Dracula disappeared. – A really strong one". 

"Incredibly strong, – the other agreed. – More's the value. Quite a trophy". 

"I am going home, – Gray went towards the exit, gesturing to them to follow. – A nosferatu cannot enter uninvited, now can he?"

"In no shape or form", – the second hunter confirmed.

"Good. Good". 

As the coach moved away, leaving the deprived harbour areas at speed, it still seemed to Gray that the mist chased after them. It was just a trick of mind, though: the wind carried the light transparent shreds towards the other end of the city. 

If a chance passer-by happened to consider a damp coldness quite enough displeasure, they were in for a revelation the very next moment: augmented with the wind, this clamminess turned out to be a whole lot more miserable experience. The wind blows, not so strong as they were persistent, got under the coattails, finding the smallest of small cracks in the armour of scarves and shawls meant to protect the Londoners in the street. Shuddering, the people pulled hats down their ears, nestled their noses in their collars and strove to cover the distance to their respective goals as soon as possible, without looking up. The mist over their heads – a rarity for the nature of winter – went completely unheeded. 

It was getting darker. The windows of a respectable brick house lit up with a nice shade of yellow. Light streams went straight into the glass, as if feeling it up, probing for a leeway in – to no avail. The mist wrapped the entire façade with one-piece sheet for a short while, then condensed, flowed down the wall and a tall, dark contour stepped on the threshold. 

The man raised his hand to ring a doorbell, but before he had time to do so, the door opened. 

"Welcome, Lord Count", – Igor said and bowed with dignity. The vampire sensed a light ethereal vibe – the invisible barriers dropped, leaving the house accessible and vulnerable. 

Igor stepped aside, letting Dracula in.

"I will confess, – the latter drawled, fishing some bundled package out of his pocket and throwing his cape off, – for a split second it seemed to me that you were hesitating, scoundrel. Was thinking of not letting me in?"

"I know the rules, – the servant was virtue personified. – Your arrival has been expected".

"And prepared for, more than well at that". 

"Follow me".

Having escorted his former master to the doors of the Professor's study, Igor bowed again, opened the door and, as befits the first-class servant, disappeared without making a ripple.

Count Dracula laid the bundle on the table, settled in one of old-fashioned armchairs and looked around lazily. In the corner there stood respectable-looking clock, measured ticking of which would put anyone in a peaceful mood. The adjacent corner was occupied with a dark-wood writing cabinet, all small drawers. Mantelpiece was adorned with two delicate Chinese vases and several photo cards. Poker, pliers, scoop, all of them scrubbed blindingly clean, were there too. The window, fully draped, was flanked with displays of whole collections of pipes, African figurines and rare butterflies. Opposite there were several well-filled bookcases. The writing tools, as majestic as the British Royal Fleet itself, dominated a formidable table. 

It was little details, though, which interfered with the ambience – a pile of medical magazines on the table, paper knife book-marking a page in the top edition; photographs picturing specimens from the Chiroptera ordinal instead of family members… Dracula would be willing to bet on the safe nearby containing an aspen stake or two and the water in the decanter was sanctified in advance. Some habits don't die hard – they live forever. 

"Good evening, your grace, – a low voice took the count out of his reverie and prompted him to turn his head in the direction of the door. – I did not think we would meet again so soon".

"Glad to see you too, Mr Harker. I trust you are in good health". 

"Thank you", – Jonathan Harker went over to the cabinet, produced a bottle. Glasses followed. "Judging by your sanguine appearance, the air of the native land proved good for you too". He sank into an armchair, equipping himself with a corkscrew. 

"Oh, Tokay, I see, – the count received a filled glass from Harker, widening his mouth in an amicable smile, – and a good harvest, too. Your taste in noble beverages is evidently still there". 

"One of our assistants, – Jonathan took a sip, – shares some habits with you. You will meet him a little later. I am sure the two of you will find a lot of mutually interesting subjects to talk about". 

"A fine house, – the count remarked sociably, gesturing around. – Your business is going well, is it not?"

"Quite so". 

"Happy to hear that, I always suspected you had a knack for management". 

Jonathan saluted with his glass in appreciation of the compliment.

"Professor will join us any minute now", – he said.

"Well then, I have time to give you someone's respects", – Dracula's smile got even wider.

"Who would it be from?" – Jonathan squinted. The room was rather draughty, but by some reason he sweated. Hotly. 

"Some young damsels I have played a guardian to until recently. You met when paying me a visit, – the count shifted in his chair and for a moment, as gas light of the chandelier reflected in his eyes, their pupils turned narrowly upright. – Poor little things, they are missing your company so much… More so now that they had to leave the castle…"

"They left, then?" – Jonathan asked, then cut himself short. But of course, the new lady of the house would not tolerate any favourites of her husband on the premises, certainly not those which are so charming… and insolent… and so much…

"Don't you worry about them, I have found them quite a good place. My relative happily gave them shelter, – Dracula held a theatrical pause. – Oh yes, Miss Murray, of course, sends her regards as well. She is very sorry that your correspondence ceased and…"

"Don't, your grace, – Jonathan winced. – Each of us has made their respective choice, countess and I. Our ways had parted forever".

"Now that you mention it, she is not quite the countess yet, – Dracula drawled, inspecting his right little finger. – You see, she is very particular about everything relating to marriage. And just as you most impolitely interrupted me, I was about to ask you a question". He tut-tutted. "Tell me, after certain events taking place, is Miss Murray still officially your wife?" 

Jonathan all but choked, caught unawares. He put his glass away, tipped his lips with a handkerchief and gave the vampire a direct eye-to-eye. 

"Before the God and men I gave an oath to be Miss Murray's husband till death do us part. Death, embodied by you, did part us. According to the English law I am now a widower. This means that my former spouse is also a free woman. If you wish, I can send you a prayer book, so you can learn the exact wording of the oath. Where are you staying?"

"Alas, – Dracula ignored the question majestically, – due to certain attributes of my nature, I have to respectfully decline your kind offer. Religious scriptures are not part of my regular reading of choice".

The sound of opening door broke the cold silence enveloping the room. 

Dracula's nostrils widened as he inhaled a new smell, his brows furrowed, as if the count tried to remember something – and then his eyes lit up in a sinister way. 

There but for the speed of his reflexes went Eric. Just having poked his nose into the room, he jumped back the very same instant. Dracula's leap ended in his shoulder meeting the slammed door, hard. While Jonathan was trying to work out what on earth was going on, the guest broke out into the corridor and lunged after Eric, but the latter had enough time to disappear in the attic.

Jonathan wasted no time following the vampire up to the third floor, but when he got there, an emotional scene was well underway. At the landing of attic, Dracula hammered the door with his fist with all his might, growling something in Romanian. The door squeaked and squealed, clearly about to buckle, explode in slivers or just go off its hinges, but at the moment, still held. There was incessant sputter in French from the other side. Jonathan could recognise only certain insulting words – but even that was more than he understood from the nosferatu's furious bellowing. 

"Oh, this is to be an intranslatable dialect, – Igor whispered in response to the lawyer's inquiring look. – The count is to believe that the person behind the door is to be a… very bad one". 

"Count! – Jonathan called, and, upon being ignored, repeated: – Count! Stop destroying the door, you are unlikely to get a proper response. I think you are simply not understood there!"

Dracula stopped beating the door and turned to Jonathan.

"It's Eric, he works for the Professor, and he's French. He speaks English though".

The nosferatu sighed heavily, muttered something to himself, them turned back to the door and resumed his efforts with the same intensity, this time accompanying them with the screams of "open up this minute, you scum!" in proper English.

"Herr Count was to say right now that the Professor hires incompetent foreigners", – Igor translated into Jonathan's ear.

"Do you understand what the heck is happening, Igor?" – Jonathan whispered back.

"Afraid so, Herr Harker, – Igor sighed in turn. – Herr Count is to recognise Eric. He is not to meet him but is to know his smell. And now he is to want to kill him".

"Whatever for, his smell?!" – Jonathan exclaimed. Dracula turned back to him.

"That's an executing offence, too", – he declared, catching his breath. 

"Eric! – Jonathan cried. – Open the door! Let's speak in civilised manner!"

"I will not! And I am not inviting anyone here!" – Eric yelled in response and reinforced his decisiveness with a quote from the Scripture. 

"It is getting right ridiculous! – Jonathan was becoming angered as well. – Lord Count, can you at least behave accordingly with your standing?" 

"Good evening, gentlemen", – they heard Professor say. Lightly as a youth, Van Helsing flew up the stairs, his glasses glittering brightly. "Hello, Count, welcome to my place. Shall we return to my study?"

"Not before I get to your hired hand, – Dracula huffed. – It's a matter of principle! I will even say, matter of honour!"

He was about to turning back to the door, but Van Helsing's hand, squeezing his shoulder slightly, stopped him.

"You are not in Transylvania any more, Lord Count, – he said quietly but firmly, adding immediately in a different tone of voice, – please, let us go to the study". 

Dracula jerked his shoulder, throwing the interfering hand off, looked Professor into the eye for a long five seconds, then led the way down, his back exuding an utter displeasure. 

"So what is it all about?" – Van Helsing asked a little while later, pouring the wine. Dracula sank back into his preferred armchair, still looking gloomy. 

"What did Eric do to you that you are so unhappy with him?" – Jonathan prompted, as the guest was definitely not in a hurry to grace them with answer.

"It is a sad story, – the count finally replied. – And my former servant played not a minor part in it. Let him speak, come to that". 

Igor got markedly nervous under the heavy look from under the frowning eyebrows. 

"Herr Count once was to be out of the castle and I invited a traveller in. That was to be many years ago, I was to tell you, Herr Harker, you are to remember". Jonathan frowned himself for a moment, then nodded quickly – but, of course, he heard it when he looked around the mansion in Belgravia, while being given some details about blood relations among high-standing Transylvanian families. – "This traveller was to be Eric, – the servant went on. – He was to be very young and was to wander around. I did not know who he was to be, but he said a Gypsy word, he was to be a friend. Moreover, there was to be a bad day, rain to beat, thunderbolt, storm. Under the laws of hospitality I was to give the guest shelter and food. He was to rest, then to play violin. Sweetly play, he did, here's to hurt, – Igor raised his hand to his heart. – All the servants were to listen and to cry. I was to make his bed in the servant's quarters, then went to check blots and windows, as always. Eric was to sleep. But one maidservant was not to sleep, she was to want Eric to play for her alone".

"And what did his Gallic savage do? – Dracula cut in. – He strangled the poor girl! I ask you, on what grounds?"

"So her death was painful to you?" – Van Helsing nodded understandingly.

"This was my favourite female servant, – Dracula informed haughtily. – I didn't find a worthy substitute before long!" 

"Eric was to say, he was not to like bats", – Igor sighed. Dracula's eyes flared up scarlet. 

"You see, Count, – Van Helsing chose his words with care, – you will have to put up with Eric living here. Please, promise me you will not hurt him. Otherwise… – he paused, – our good relations will be threatened".

"I heard you, Professor, – Dracula said slowly, twisting his lips. – Considering the circumstances I must comply".

"Then, I trust, we have to invite Eric in. Igor, if you'll be so kind. It's a long evening ahead – a lot of things to discuss, many decisions to make".

Igor did not return for a long, long time, enough for a second bottle of Tokay to appear, Professor to puff at his pipe and Jonathan to ease the knot of his bow. 

"Tell me, dear Count, what is in this package, by the way?" – Van Helsing asked suddenly, pointing at the bundle with his embouchure. 

"This is a modest gift. It seems to me to be a rule, to bring gifts entering someone's house". 

Van Helsing silently asked for the permission to open the packet, exchanged looks with Jonathan and tore off part of the wrappings. 

Several large brown bulbs, looking roughly like onions, were produced. For a while Van Helsing inspected them, then threw himself on the back of his chair and laughed out loud. 

"Bravo, Lord Count, upon my honour, it's the dandiest present I have ever received in my life!"

"At your service", – Dracula responded with dignified restraint, making it as clear as possible with his body language that he was completely at a loss about what amused his host that much. Jonathan reached for a bulb. 

"Is it some particular variety?" – Van Helsing inquired, putting the onions in a row on the table.

"It is the Transylvanian garlic, frost-proof, great blooms, – Dracula explained amicably. – You will certainly appreciate its beauty and efficiency". 

Eric entered the study. His entire figure was a picture of civilian disobedience. 

Dracula bared his snow-white fang demonstrably, then looked away.

Eric hissed something curt and apparently not too grave, just to distract the count from inspecting his own fingernails.

"And now, – Van Helsing put the bulbs away from the table, – back to the business, gentlemen".


	18. The importance of the bathrooms

It was past the dinner time for servants, and kitchen was nearly empty. The scullery-maid rattled with the plates in the sink, her fellow kitchen maid was drying the clean pieces of crockery with a cotton towel and put them on the shelves, and then they were to wash up the floor, – not an easy task, considering the size of the kitchen in question. The rest of servants went back to their positions doing their regular chores. Only two young women still stayed on at the table, looking like twins in their black dresses, white collars and aprons. 

"I have to tidy up in the second floor, – one said, half-rising and taking the grip of the teapot, – but first, you just have to have a go at my special recipe. I promise you, dear Mary, you have never tasted anything like this, nowhere, even at your former lady's". 

"You are a right magician with the kettle, are you, dear Jane", – Mary laughed after the first sip. 

Jane was 26, twelve of which she had been a housemaid. She never felt it as a burden, thanks to her agreeable character and evergreen cheerfulness, whereas her diligence and pristine integrity made her so valued an employee, the housekeeper even turned a blind eye to a minute or two spent on taking a regular cup of tea, which, by the way, beat anything in Park Lane as far as the taste and aroma were concerned. 

"My first master was Major Kenneth, there was a mysterious gentleman from the East among the staff, too. Dunno where from exactly. So strange, he was, not like anyone else. Would kill or die for the master, a daredevil and no mistake! That was him who taught my sister and me some secret tea recipes, lest the mystery gets lost in centuries".

The other housemaid, whose cup was already nearly empty, stifled a chuckle and reached for the biscuits' vase.

"Then I went on to find more recipes by myself, – Jane was positively enthused. – It helped me a lot since. Say, you go searching for a place, respond to an advertisement, and there are half a dozen your fellow candidates there when you turn up. And the lady of the house looks at you as if she'd just eaten a lemon without a pinch of sugar, and says: "Well, then, make me a tea, will you?" I would brew a cup, she would take a sip – and mellow right then and there. And then she would ask again and again: "More of your wonderful tea, please. Shame, – she suddenly deflated, – Mr Gray looks like he fell out of love with it lately. I'll think about finding myself another job. Make no mistake, Mary, it's not like I don't like anything here. The wages are fine, there is a day off every week and Mrs Black is not too harsh… it's just… I would like to see new things. Ah, Mary, I even envy you – you saw other lands when you were with your lady! I would so love to be in your shoes, even for a short while!"

"It was a long time ago, – Mary looked down. – And, believe you me, being a personal maid of a prima donna is not the best job in the world. These actor fellows, ouch…" – she waved her hand.

"I would never leave a place like this!"

"It seemed I found a new opening in life. Then I met a wonderful man and he proposed to me, – Jane's look craved for more of the story, so Mary went on. – And then I went to her and said: ‘Oh Signora Arletti, you know my loyalty to you is boundless, but my heart now belongs to someone else, the best, the kindest, the most loving man in the world". The Signora even gave us a valuable present for the wedding. We were so happy! But my husband died in an accident and I was left all alone. I had some savings, but I decided to go into the service again". 

"Of Mr Hopkins, – Jane nodded. – A good home, a good master". 

"Of Miss Hopkins, – Mary smiled. – A decent job, but then I met an old acquaintance and she told me that Mr Dorian Gray was hiring a new housemaid and the fee there was higher. Miss Hopkins was not all that happy, of course, but she was understanding". 

Another man entered the kitchen. He was very tall, skinny, and, in his long-tailed brown coat, complete with a hat (he refused to take it off even under the roof), looking much like an escaped scarecrow. Indeed, any offending veg patch poaches would be well-impressed. He took away a coffee pot and a cup and dissipated into the shadows. 

"What a horrible fellow, – Jane whispered heartily. – Gives me creeps every time. A right foreigner, no two ways about it, and always drinks this coffee of his, to boot, such a filthy potion! When will the master get rid of them already? Too many things changed this year, – she shuddered, – and then there is this new personal aide, too. He not so much speaks as he barks". 

"He might have been ill once, and lost his voice as a result".

Jane shook his head, refusing to calm down at such flimsy excuses. 

"It will be three years I'm working here this Easter, and earlier on Mr Gray always held balls and receptions, you could find a quiet place just for yourself and look over the most pretty and famous ladies of society and their dresses. That was then, and this is now".

"Signora Arletti at times had what she called "go in search for your true self". She would turn any invitations down, would not respond to her gallants, go even to suburbs to get rid from her star fame. She would fret over flowers and sing merry folk songs". A sneering grunt sounded from the corner where the man was sitting, and both girls who all but forgot about him by the time, sent withering looks in that direction. "Though, after a while, the Signora would decide her search was happily over and go back to Milan, to catch up with what she left off", – she finished. 

Both housemaids laughed.

"An amusing story, – the voice from the darkness was hollow. – I used to visit Italy and met Signora Arletti once or twice. A wonderful contralto, not a talent you would find easily. Could we also meet each other then?" 

"I doubt it, – Mary responded coldly. – You must be mistaken". 

"Anything is possible, – he answered, then, having turned a small porcelain cup over in his hands couple of times, put it down. – Bonne chance, Mesdemoiselles". 

When he was gone, Jane wrinkled her little nose, took the dirty crockery from the table and gathered it away. 

"He's horrible, he is, – she declared. – Why in the world would Mr Gray hire someone like that?"

"People like that are normally hired for the defence, an armed one, too". 

"Then they are here because of our guest! Surely, he is a heir of kings or some such, and rivals for the throne are after him! That's why he never leaves the room – he is afraid of attempts on his life, and Mr Gray protects him, so that there would be no awful consequences in Europe. He'd better leave at least sometimes, though – how would one tidy up his room without being noticed, if he is always there?" 

"You have been to his room, then?"

"You bet I was, I just got tired to wait for him to leave. Between bothering a guest and the need for tidying, you'll get scolded much more for the messy floor and a used tray still inside, – Jane got up and cleaned her dress, smoothening the pleat and adjusting the apron in the process. – Well, it's time, back to work".

"It is, indeed, – Mary took the tray and suddenly gave Jane a peering look. – Wait, there's something glittering around your neck".

Jane quickly felt herself up. 

"My late grandfather gave it to me, – she said, producing a tiny silver cross. – Thank you for noticing, should Mrs Black discover it, I would be in trouble. I can just hear her nasal preach about decent housemaids not needing any adorning".

"Don't take it off, – Mary advised earnestly, helping her friend to adjust her collar. – I have to go too, the dust in the library misses me greatly".

The backstairs, used by all the servants when moving about the house, started off near the kitchen and usually it was more crowded there than at the most popular and merry ball. Someone would dart upstairs, someone in the opposite direction, buckets were carried and so were trays – everybody were rushing to complete some errand. Now, though, it was empty – the maid found a rarest moment, that of quiet. She gathered her skirts and went up quickly. A heavy hand of man landed on her shoulder.

"Did you find what you were looking for?"

"Fortunately, I didn't. I watched all the other maids yesterday very closely before we went to bed – no bite marks". 

"Whereas the last discharged maid left three days ago… The Count must be well hungry now. Try and not to end up in his teeth, Miss Adler".

Irene winced. 

"It's very nice of you to care for me that much, Monsieur Eric".

He laughed softly. "To care for your safety is my duty. Otherwise, as Mr Harker promised me at our last meeting, he will shoot me dead after all. Did you speak to the Count?"

"No, – Irene shook her head. – He almost never leaves his room. I saw him only once, in the library. He didn't appear to recognise me…"

"You changed your looks well, – Eric approved. – And you play your part well, too. Hardly that well as to fool a nosferatu, though, I don't think". 

"He didn't even look at me, – Irene felt silent, then changed the subject. – Tell me, Monsieur Eric, there in the kitchen… Was it necessary, your remark, I mean?" 

"I could hardly help myself. Besides, it's true, I was in Milan when you sang there. Where, by the way, is Mary the housemaid now?"

"Maria? – Irene smiled. – She got married and remained in Warsaw. We exchange cards each Christmas, I try to send them some nice gifts. They are good people".

"Strange how you managed to leave good memories to good people, – envy in Eric's voice was palpable. – I never could". 

"Have you never held anyone dear?" – Irene was genuinely surprised.

"I had. Several. Once, Miss… Mary, I made a great mistake. I allowed myself to feel something to one girl. I lost everything I had, save for bitter memories and shards of my broken heart, – now, there was clear longing in the tone of his voice. He stayed quiet for a while and then asked in a different tone: – I take it, you broke some hearts in your time, as well?" 

Irene sighed sadly.

"The last time I allowed myself to open my heart, my beloved tried to kill me. Now I will take my leave of you, Monsieur. My absence might be unduly spotted". 

* * *

Oddly, the Count von Vittelburcharstaufen liked Christmas. Being not weighed down with the Christian morals as heavily as was his uncle Vlad, brought up in different times, Aurel never focused on the sacred meaning of the festivities, he just enjoyed the outward paraphernalia: the ambience, the gifts, the meals. 

It was the first time he was not at home for Christmas – and, rather than exciting adventure, he was deep into a jail. 

The door opened and a tall tawny woman brought in a pile of linen. 

Aurel turned another book page absent-mindedly, but out of the corner of his eye he watched the newcomer. Having curtsied slightly, the woman went on to the bathroom and rustled with something. He half-closed his eyes, going deep into sensing everything around. There were smells of starch, cheap soap, ah, woollen dress, kitchen odours on it, a duck consommé in the making, right, some other smell, a very delicate, barely perceptible… a rose water. 

For some five seconds more he still stayed in his chair, his eyes closed, then rose lightly and froze in the bathroom's door.

The woman was carefully putting toiletries in the shelves. She didn't look up at the Count.

"Miss Adler", – he called softly.

Her hand paused in the mid-air over the little flagon of thick blue glass.

"I hope, – she said, – you will not do anything… unneeded? The exposure would be fateful for me and your friends alike".

"Friends? I have friends?"

"And they are worried about you".

Aurel shook his head, looked out into the corridor to check whether the odious werewolf was there eavesdropping, then returned to the bathroom. He left the door open so as to see through the room.

"So, Miss Adler", – he said and took her hand with feeling. His soft cold lips nestled against her warm skin for a long while. Irene gingerly touched his perfectly combed fair hair with her free hand. 

"Professor Van Helsing knows your situation, – she said in a low voice. – So, of course, does Mr Harker. Mr Gray's house is being watched. Igor…"

"My poor Igor, – Aurel said, still holding her hand. – Gray said he…"

"He is alive, – Irene cut in. – Perfectly well already, too. It was him who told the Professor what happened to you".

"I felt your presence straight away but thought I was losing my mind, going into wishful thinking. But here you are, for real. Why? And looking like that…" 

"Mr Gray hired a new housemaid. She was intercepted and I took her place". 

"Oh no…" – Aurel whispered.

 

…Upon request of Professor Van Helsing Eric found one of the housemaids who had been given a sack and on some pretext brought her to the Westwick Gardens Street. It turned out she bore traces on her neck – two small holes, the mark of nosferatu. She did not lose much blood, though, and the most important thing, she didn't remember any of it. 

"My dear Miss Adler, – Professor said, after outlining the whole bleak picture for her, – I can't ask you risk your own life by going to Dorian Gray's house".

They met couple of days after her last visit to the Professor's home. Miss Adler's resolution to help their friends was burning, whereas Van Helsing tried to persuade her to keep safe and refrain from going on slippery slope of a life-threatening adventure… or at the very least, a health-threatening one. 

"There is no need of you asking, – she shook her head. – I made my choice. Be honest with me: is there any other way to sneak into Mr Gray's house? Without dressing poor Mr Harker up as a woman, that is?"

"I am afraid nothing we can think of, – Van Helsing answered. – But, given time…"

"Do you have it? Does the Count have it?"

They did not know.

Irene Adler sang at a charity concert most splendidly, after which she turned down several invitations, excusing herself with announcement of leaving London for several months. She gathered her belongings and in the broad light of day checked out of the hotel, with some mightily generous parting tips going around. "Kings Cross", – she instructed the cabman loud and clear, and his whip cracked. 

A little later she came to the house of Professor Van Helsing, to then leave it under the guise of housemaid…

 

"…I sent my servant away for holidays and borrowed her dresses. We are about the same height, all that was needed was taking them in a bit, Mr Igor helped there. Luckily, the only one here who could recognise me is Dorian Gray himself, but so far I have managed to avoid him, let's hope it stays that way. Tell me, what does he want from you? We must know…"

"If only I knew! – Aurel exclaimed angrily – Gray keeps quiet. Keeps quiet and… feeds me". He looked at Irene defiantly. "Do you know why they constantly hire new personnel? Why they really do it?" He looked into her eye searchingly. 

"I can guess, Count, – Irene nodded looking him directly in the eye, unflinching. – I know who you are, – she paused. – A nosferatu".

He instantly vanished from the spot, appearing suddenly in the opposite end of the room, near a big bath with golden handles.

"For how long have you known?" – his eyes narrowed.

"I spoke to Professor Van Helsing right after the Lady Ascot's ball. I noticed then that mirrors didn't reflect you".

"Reckless", – Aurel muttered. It was hard to tell whether he referred to Irene or himself.

"What means do they use to confine you here? – Irene asked. – Mr Igor mentioned magic…"

"Yes, some sort of disgusting rites, – the Count hunkered down on the bathroom's edge and sadly looked at Irene. – In my uncle's eyes, this is a disgrace for the entire family. Had he been here, I would be in as deep as I was when he tried to show me the ropes of sabre fight. Had he by a sheer miracle happened nearby, – he repeated softly. – I can but dream of that, despite having, courtesy of him, to bear about a dozen names once belonging to an array of long-dead warmongers, each boasting his own particular brand of bloodthirstiness. Excuse me, I digress". 

"Your emotions run high, – Irene moved closer, – and no wonder".

"So, as for that sorcery with which this scum tied me down, – Aurel went on. – I memorised several passages of his spells. Got even myself surprised by managing it.I will write it down for you. But don't expect too much, I am a poor counsel when it comes to magic, it doesn't have much to do with the properties of our kind". 

"Can you really turn into a mist?"

"I can, – the Count smiled. – Not very good at it yet, though. This skills is gained by experience. I did try to change shape as a means to escape, on my first day here, but, alas, Gray forethought such an occurrence. The punishment was… gruesome. I was so careless, Miss Adler! I believed I would get everything I dreamed of in Transylvania as I would get to London. And thus I failed my father, failed Igor… even myself!" 

"Don't give up hope, Aurel. We will find the way out yet".

Irene went to the door. The Count jumped off his improvised seat, outstarted the woman, and bowed gracefully to her, letting her out.

"Should we need to speak again,.." – he began.

"Order some bath accessories, – Irene smiled in response. – I will understand".

* * *

It happened next day. Having brought the Count's note – several lines in Latin – to Eric and relayed to him the essence of their discourse, Irene went back to her usual chores. The former Phantom of the Opera had much more freedom of the house. It wasn't much of a problem for him to sneak out of the mansion and pass it all on to Professor Van Helsing and then come back with conveyance of gratitude and reiteration of how important it was to be careful. 

She and the Count hadn't seen each other since that first time, he again retired to his room, and Irene decided to use several free minutes she had got by chance for sewing up the worn-out hem of her apron. It was still a long way to disaster, but she was always one for prevention rather than salvation: the inconvenient outcomes tended to arise in the worst possible moment, she knew that much. She armed herself with a needle and a coil of white threads, she settled down in a nondescript corner and was just about started with her work when the dark silhouette of Nikolae appeared in front of her.

"Bring the guest some tea. Room service", – he ordered. 

It was strange to Irene that the order came from Gray's personal assistant instead of Mrs Black the housekeeper, but she didn't let her surprise show, just quickly went about gathering all what was needed on a tray. The shapeshifter's impatience was hard to miss.

"Come", – he commanded and led the way to the stairs. 

Following Nikolae, Irene was at a loss, what was it exactly that Aurel might need right now and why did he not use the way of bath communication they agreed upon. 

The werewolf flung the doors open and all but pushed her in, growling something in a strange tongue over her shoulder. The door behind her slammed shut. Irene winced at the sound and stepped towards Aurel. 

"Your tea,.."

The nosferatu reacted in a way Irene could expect the least. His eyes widened in horror, he recoiled from her, grabbed a heavy armchair and put it in front of himself in a flash.

"Get out! Now!" – he hissed.

Irene frowned, puzzled.

"What is going on, Count, would you tell me?" 

Aurel stretched out a hand.

"I did not ask for a tea, – he said. – I did not call for you, it was that hound who brought you here. Did you hear what he said?"

"Not very clearly, I seem to have heard something like ‘perantz'". 

"Pranz, – Aurel clipped distinctly, twisting his lips in a cruel sneer. – It's "dinner" in Romanian".

She felt a bout of terror enveloping her. It had been at least four days since the nosferatu had his last meal. He must have been very hungry by now…

"Leave, – the Count repeated. – I will order for another housemaid to be sent in".

"No, – Irene was surprised by her own words. – If you send me away, it might arouse suspicion. You haven't been so… discriminate before, have you? I might get fired, or worse, attract excessive attention". She shook her head resolutely. "I saw one of the girls with which you once… associated. Tell me, Aurel, this won't make me a nosferatu, will it?"

"No, – the Count withdrew to the farthest corner on the room and leaned on the wall. – The feeding, – he was not remotely soft in choosing his words, – differs from the turning significantly. Should every bite result in a turning, there would not be a single human left in our parts in a week". 

Irene saw a feverish glint in Aurel's eyes, scarlet flames coming and going there. He was barely teetering on the brink. She went for the button near the throat, her fingers almost not trembling at all.

Aurel drew close and put his hand over her fingers, helping her to unfasten the collar. Carefully turning down the cloth's edge, he bared her neck and touched her temple. Irene felt slightly dazzled, contours of everything around distorted a little, all the sounds went muffed. In one last effort she found the Count's hand and squeezed his fingers slightly.

"The Professor said that the girls didn't remember a thing. Do you mesmerize them?"

"In a way."

"Are you doing it now?"

"Trust me, these are not the memories you would wish to keep, Miss Adler".

"Please. I want to remember".

The dizziness dissipated, the contours in front of her became distinct again. 

"I will not inflict any pain", – the Count said, hovering over her ear. Irene saw his fangs lengthen and gripped his waistcoat hard. 

Nikolae, passing the door, heard a genuine horror-filled scream of a woman and sneered widely.


	19. The Power of Art

Diaries of the late Alan Campbell occupied Van Helsing's attention for quite a while. Unable to put them down, the scientist kept thinking about the great injustice of fate which tore such a talented and bold chemist off the mortal coil so soon. Who knew what secrets of the universe might such a powerful mind unveil? 

All things scientific were concentrated in separate notebooks, where Alan Campbell scrutinised all his observations and conclusions, which were of great value for his colleague. Still, at the moment, the Professor was completely taken by his personal diary, a true manifest of the author's bright and all-rounded personality. Formulas were interspersed with music sheets, for Campbell's proficiency in science and arts was equally impressive; the remembrances of some societal entertainments went hand in hand with philosophical reminiscences about the human nature which became more and more wistful the closer they were to the date of Alan's death.

Dorian Gray's name came up time and again. Campbell went into a detail about their adventures together, in the same way as he did about his scientific experiments. Perhaps, he saw it just in the same light, too: there was no particular embarrassment or ethical torture, a striving for new discoveries dominated it all. Still, the tone changed along the way: disillusionment replaced the excitement, the enthusiasm turned into disgust. Alan Campbell did not specify the actual cause of ending their friendship, but blamed himself for being foolish and short-sighted. The regret soaked the last pages so tangibly, it physically hurt to read them. Van Helsing had to close the diary twice before continuing. It was all but unbearable to see a talent fall into abyss, no one there to catch him before the fatal crash, no one able of doing so in the end.

Having read it all through, the Professor closed the notebook, put his hand on its slightly worn leathery binding, monogram A. C. on it half-faded because of time passage, and sat quietly for several minutes, silently bidding his farewell to a colleague.

"Thank you, Alan Campbell, – he whispered finally. – May the Almighty have mercy on your soul".

The diaries went back to the writing desk's drawer. Van Helsing locked it up and left the study.

Yet he did return there a moment later, and this time he was not alone.

The Professor climbed down the stairs, Jonathan Harker climbed them up, both deep in thought… to make a long story short, a collision was barely avoided somewhere between the second floor and third. 

"What a good job I caught your home! –the lawyer happily exclaimed straight after first hellos and exchange of apologies. – I have a most fascinating story for you".

Igor peeked into the study. It took him less than a second to take in the fire in the lawyer's eyes, intrigued expression of Van Helsing and what it all should entail – thus, he just laconically inquired what the gentlemen wanted with their tea. 

Despite his former master's arrival, Igor stayed at the house in Westwick Gardens, keeping the company of its residents. He declared he had to personally watch every move taken to free his charge. Then he methodically calculated his supposed wage as a housekeeper and clarified that this amount would be deducted from the fees for the soliciting services of Helsing & Harker's enterprise. Dracula wondered, with interest, about his former servant's current tariffs and, upon hearing the answer, looked at the Professor not without some compassion. 

Van Helsing, though, did not stoop to bargaining, considering it beneath him. (Eric's opinion differed, but was not taken into account). 

To be fair to Igor, the house did come close to perfection under his watch. Annie left for the holidays with family with considerably broadened culinary palette, a dozen more recipes now at her disposal. At times, the servant lamented the constraints of the available scale – after running a huge Transylvanian castle, the modest London house gave him not nearly enough room to show off his entire range of skills. 

Van Helsing sipped from his cup and put it back on the tray. Jonathan made himself comfortable in the armchair and started his story.

"As you surely remember, several days ago I turned to a friend of mine who serves in the police for help. He was not involved in that particular investigation, not to mention it was rather brief, yet he gave me the name I needed and I had a chat with former Inspector Fisher today. He once worked on the case of Alan Campbell's suicide. He retired half a year ago, which was enough to get him desperately bored without work. So my visit made his spouse and him positively happy. The inspector – to whom I will refer this way from now on, if you don't mind, as he is one of the wonderful class of people truly dedicated to their calling, – dispelled all my suspicions about the death of Geoffrey's cousin straight away. I must admit, I did allow for it being a killing, but it proved to be not so. Several days before the tragedy Alan Campbell made some changes to his will, then wrote a farewell note and shot himself in the head. The only possible questions left were as regards to the cause of such a dreadful choice, but this is up to those left behind to guess. Still, before passing the final verdict and closing the case, the police questioned several individuals who were close to Alan. One of these names was one we know well: that of Mr Dorian Gray. According to Inspector Fisher, Gray was less than happy to be interrogated as well as the others, his fame and wealth notwithstanding – and that's putting it mildly. He lodged several complaints about the police's course of action and used all his influence to prevent them going unheeded. As a result, when they met again, the Inspector, who was personally affected by the consequences of Gray's displeasure, allowed himself a joy of a little… payback. 

Van Helsing grinned knowingly, then turned serious.

"In other words, Dorian Gray attracted the police's attention twice?"

"Thrice, to be precise, – Jonathan corrected. – There was one more time, related to a hunting accident. Some tramp was shot dead, formerly a sailor. But what we really want to look into is the case of Mr Basil Hallward's disappearance". 

"I remember the name, – Professor said. – An extraordinary artist, he was, they said he could reach the level of the great masters of the past, or even surpass them. So, he vanished, you say? I have not been following the art-related news". 

"He did. The high society was rather agitated by the fact. Hallward was leaving for Paris where he intended to spend several months, away from the maddening buzz of big crowds, throwing himself completely into work. So it was not before long that him never boarding the train became known. Of course, by then, there were no witnesses in sight… The only modicum of a clue is this: in the evening when he was last seen, he visited his old friend, Mr Dorian Gray. According to the servants, Mr Hallward waited for him until eleven p.m., but to no avail, then left. It was the ninth of November, Professor". 

"Just days before Alan Campbell's death, that is", – Van Helsing completed his comrade's train of thought. 

"Well, do you not think this coincidence somewhat odd? Two people, close to Dorian Gray, virtually simultaneously… Even though it's not officially known what became of Basil Hallward, I am willing to assume he is no longer with us either, – Jonathan paused. – Besides, I looked at some of his works and talked to some artists. A close friendship is a rare beast among this clan, but they spoke of Basil uniformly kindly and were in high opinion of his talent, especially so as far as one particular painting was concerned. Have you heard about Gray's strange aversion to portraits and photographs? This eccentricity of his is a talk of many".

"Yes, – Professor nodded, – Miss Adler did point it out among other things. I noted this oddity too: it would be more natural for a man of such a remarkably good looks to try and preserve them in some way". 

Jonathan grinned triumphantly.

"20 years ago the now-missing Basil Hallward painted his portrait. Everyone who saw the result called it a masterpiece, without a single objection. The greatest creation of a genius, they said. The portrait, according to the witnesses, pictured Gray in the full bloom of his beauty".

Van Helsing put his glasses aside. 

"Well, what happened to it, then?"

"Hallward gave the painting to his model as a present. For some time, it was kept there, invariably instilling admiration in everybody visiting the house. Then Gray hid it from view, and after a while, destroyed. So they said, at least". Jonathan shrugged.

"I don't believe it,– Van Helsing said firmly. – I would be willing to bet on him still having the portrait somewhere about the house". 

"Why?"

"Logic would suggest the picture showing something Dorian Gray would rather never show the outsiders, – the Professor sighed. – You say many saw it and were enraptured. Nevertheless, it was taken away from the view. The only logical thing to suggest is that something happened, causing measures to be taken". 

"A damage of the portrait, you mean? Someone or something causing it harm, this kind of thing? – Jonathan got up and moved away from the chair. – Well then, it would not be strange if the owner decided to hide it from the prying eyes. A sad story, but hardly an unusual one, I would say". 

"I don't think so, – Van Helsing got up as well and paced the study, then returned to his own chair. – It seems to me, there is a much more sinister story behind it all, one dating way back to old times and legends of crimes and death which stayed concealed from the knowledge of men but not the higher powers".

"Are you talking about something like indelible blood stains in the scenes of murder? – Jonathan presumed. – All attempts to remove those fail… Ghost stories, perhaps? But why do you reject the possibility that the portrait was taken from view for a more mundane reason?" 

"I don't reject any theory out of hand, even an illogical one. We should consider the facts, though. What do we know of Dorian Gray? What of it might be related to artists, pictures, painting as such?"

"Well, his portrait was once painted. He was not older than 20 at the time".

"Check and check. Then something happened… Let us call it "an event" for now, an event A. After this, the portrait which – taken into account how highly the painter's skills was regarded – indubitably was flattering for the model, disappears from view altogether. Does it mean complete vanishing from existence, we do not yet know. Let us presume it has not been destroyed for good. Go on, my friend".

"Gray is well-known as an art connoisseur".

"I don't think it matters at this stage. Next".

"Mr Gray is exceptionally handsome, supposing this has anything to do with painting".

"He is, and, according to eyewitnesses, this handsomeness defies the powers of time. Next".

"Twenty years since the noted portrait was created, Mr Hallward, who actually painted it, comes to Gray's house – then leaves it. That's taking the servants' testimony at face value". 

"We shall yet look at this particular point more closely. So, first an artist comes to Gray's house. Then, we may suppose, a certain event B takes place, causing the artist to disappear. We shall not dwell by now, whether it happened in Gray's house or on the way to Paris". 

"Afterwards, – Jonathan took over, feeling some undefined shapes take more clear form in his mind, – Mr Campbell visits Gray's house. An event C – whatever it is – happens. Following the visit, the chemist resolves to commit suicide". 

"Exactly". 

"But what the portrait has to do with any of it?"

"Have patience, my friend. Let me finish my expedition story first, the one about human sacrifices".

"Oh yes, that was a tale which impressed Eric notably". 

"This topic does tend to have such effect on people. But there's something else I need to tell you. The tribe we researched was friendly to us – right until we broke one of their taboos. Do you know which one it was? Making images of people, that's what. They viewed an image of a man as that man himself. In fact, ancient Egyptians were of the same opinion – did they not leave the ushebti, the figurines of the deceased's servants, in the crypts? Those were meant to serve the dead in their afterlife and used instead of ritual killing the servants themselves. The greater the likeness, the closer an image's tie to the original. Now, in our case, the artist was really good, to say the least, – Van Helsing fell silent for a while, resting his chin on his hand. – From the heights of our cultural and civilisation advances, we consider things like that foolishness and superstition… yet he paid for his masterpiece with his life. Do I need to mention that we had to cut our expedition way short, too? Beating a hasty retreat, we lost four members of the party, I got shot in a leg, and only by a sheer luck this arrow was not poisoned with one of the monstrous potions to which all our modern knowledge is not nearly a match. That's what breaking this single taboo cost us. Well, I am starting to think that the savages knew better than we did". 

"My God, Professor,.." – Jonathan's brow furrowed. 

"It seems to me, we can build a theory here, from the guesstimate and suppositions. Let's first suppose that the event A happened when the painter Basil Hallward, through the sheer power of his gift, or with the use of occult skills, created such a portrait of Mr Gray that it took over the aging from Mr Gray himself. Just one version, – he lifted his hands, – like any other one. Look at him: forty years of age, and looks like a 20-year-old fresh-face. I can professionally, medically confirm the latter, mind. He is not a nosferatu, yet something keeps him young. I don't think I will be much mistaken when assuming this something has everything to do with magic. The beauty preserved by art is beyond the decaying effects of time…"

"So the event B will be…?" 

"Hallward, as would any artist in his shoes, wished to see his creation once again. He was about to leave for another land, for a long time, perhaps, he wanted to check something out…"

"What happened, then? – Jonathan demanded. – Did Gray prevent him from doing so?" 

"Perhaps. Or maybe, the artist saw something no man alive was meant to see". 

"And so became a man… not alive? All right, but why would Gray need to take the chemist's life?" 

"Covering his tracks, quite possibly. Getting rid of the body – or the portrait, though this is unlikely – is another version. Anyway, Alan Campbell by whatever reason did what Gray wanted him to do, and then, haunted by remorse, killed himself". 

Van Helsing kept quiet for some more time. 

"What are the powers of painter's talent, should said painter get tired of just watching and imitating nature and motivated to move away, to create something different, yet just as real? – he finally said, turning his pipe over in his hands, lost in thought. – Paintings capture the images of people long dead, allowing us to judge their characters thanks to the artist's gift. Provided the painter is talented and honest, there will be truth to his work. Then, there are those stories about souls confined in the portraits, involving curses and horrible secrets. Can the power of art smash the barrier between the worlds?" 

"Count von Vie used to own a most fascinating gallery, – the lawyer said thoughtfully. – I positively saw some portraits' eyes following me and was willing to bet some of them might talk, if they wanted to". 

"Considering the nature of our client, a strong possibility, I would say, – Van Helsing smiled kindly. – I heard one more tale, but if we presume there is any grain of truth to it, and, moreover, it is somehow connected to our case… I won't harass you with minute detail. Suffice it to say that there once was a truly awful man who desperately wanted to live forever. So he ordered his portrait to be painted, aiming to place his soul within this image and go on existing even after his body died. It appears, the artist in question was of not a lesser talent than was Basil Hallward, and he created an amazing picture which came alive all by itself... Gray is not just trying his hand at the occult. He is no stranger to its darkest variety. The portrait is not nearly enough reliable for his ends. Gray wants to find another way to live forever. There is no other reason for him to venture into this kidnapping plot, going after the Count".

"We are getting too carried away with theories!" – the lawyer protested.

"Perhaps, – the Professor's ardour seemed to cool down somewhat. – Nevertheless, I would still look for the portrait… Will you meet Miss Adler today, Jonathan?"

The young man looked at this watch. 

"I will. All housemaids have a free evening. We agreed to meet tonight. And tomorrow I will have to check up on the Count. I would like to talk to him about your guess – after all, he is much better than we at all things mystical. Who would have thought, Count Dracula in alliance with us…"

"I would suspect, such a happenstance became as much of a surprise for the count, too, – Van Helsing responded and added, laughing, – and not an easy burden, what with the need to stick by the agreement". 

Jonathan smiled back, but this smile faded as, on his way out, his eye happened on the latest edition of a newspaper beside the tray. The lawyer froze in his tracks and read in. Everything he found reflected on his face instantly, so there was not a trace of recent merriment in his eyes as he turned back to Van Helsing. 

"I will pay a visit to Count Dracula this very day", – he said harshly and rushed down the stairs.

Professor Van Helsing picked up the paper, to look up what shocked his young colleague that much. He didn't have to search for long: in the Who's Where section allocated to the news and gossip from the high society circles, one reporter described, rather flippantly, the London tour of an opera diva from Italy, all concerts, applause, avalanches of flowers, even in the cold winter of the city, and obligatory crowds of followers, craving for even a cursory look from their idol. The story ended with a brief note about the next performance cancellation, the reason being, the prima donna's housemaid found the lady unconscious and extraordinarily pale in her room and had quite a trouble nursing her back to awareness. The Signora then refused to sing because of sudden pain in her neck.


	20. Allies and Enemies

Mary the housemaid put on a clean dress, re-did her hair, fastened the broche she borrowed from Jenny, and so became properly armed up to have her first evening off at Mr Gray's. 

To be fair, before leaving the house she made up the beds, tidied up in the reception, and took part in the cleaning of silver, that is, did her duty as a working person in full. 

Omnibus quickly took her away from the holiday lights, rich houses and prying looks. The snowing had stopped several days ago already – slush took over the streets. Cloud rags were blown across the sky, covering the receding crescent almost completely. It the dull light of sparse street lanterns, houses resembled huge grey cats: tail up, flat face, predatory yellow window eyes. Grills threw slanting strips of shadows on the pavement, turning it into a prison robe. The street looked as deserted as the Thames in the winter.

But the moment the young woman stepped out on the cobbles, the space around suddenly was filled with sound and movement. Nightlife of London was different from the daylight one. Night revealed what rays of sun concealed, putting a false varnish on the nature of man. If you are after the true essence of what makes the city tick, then, for the precision of observing, night time is better. 

Window pane rattled, a door creaked, shutting. Shadows unglued from a wall, covered with old posters, nay, not shadows but women: painted faces, almost masquerade-like clothes, coarse stances. Men in docked waistcoats cackled nearby, showing crooked teeth. A bulky old man, looking like a retired sailor, leaned on the lantern, lighting a cigar.

Mary looked around stealthily and headed towards the inn called One-Eyed Cathy. At about half-distance she noticed a movement out of the corner of her eye and slowed down.

"Good night", – Jonathan Harker said softly. Mary smiled, and familiar features of Irene Adler showed through the guise of a humble handmaid. 

"We can go arm-in-arm, – she said, – we shall arise less suspicion this way, and warm up, too".

They went on together. But they were followed by someone else – up there, high above their heads, leaping from roof to roof, hiding behind the chimneys, his eyes on a devilishly black face glimmering with the lust of pursuit. 

The motley crew of frequenters in One-Eye Cathy was a noisy one, but so far the general level of decency was maintained. The tapeur at the peeling-off piano beat something presumably stirring out of the keys, men smoked a lot, women laughed a lot. This was the place the lower-rank clerks brought their girls in, to chat them up into a night together over a glass or two. That was also where they drank themselves silly when an angered prude would give them a slap in the face and leave, sweeping the ash-covered wooden floor with her hem. As well, here they would try and line up a more agreeable dolly. 

Eric knew this inn well – it was him who pointed to Cathy as a suitable location for appointments. 

Jonathan manoeuvred Irene to the farthest table available. Taking her coat off she had time to notice some dirty looks and thought, rather cynically, that the only thing that set one man apart from another was the size of his purse. No matter where, in this cheap den or at a glittering reception in the highest circles, the first rule stays the same: don't look too easy, for there's never a shortage of those after a quick pick, nor too unattainable, for that would attract scores of those craving cut you down to size. 

Having taken the opposite seat, Jonathan squared his shoulders, immediately adding on significance, protecting his companion from the strangers' eyes. 

The hostess appeared, a stained apron tied over her round hips. Jonathan ordered a pint and ragout. 

"How… how are you?" – he asked quietly when they were left alone. He meant to ask about something else but thought better of it. 

"Earning my keep, – Irene indulged in some sarcasm, but changed her tone quickly to more earnest one. – Do not worry, Mr Harker, I am fine". 

"Are you?"

"Well enough to go on". 

Their pint and meat arrived. 

Jonathan kept quiet, gathering his thought. He was strangely affected by the company of Miss Adler: for some uncanny reason, it made him awkward and tied his tongue. It was as if some sort of spell came over him. They were never friends, nor even all that close in acquaintance. They didn't exchange letters or came upon each other in the society. Ear-deep in work, Jonathan would sincerely deny any suggestion that Irene Adler in any way touched his heart or occupied his thoughts. All feelings like that were far behind him, buried together with all memories of another woman. He should outline the symptoms to the Professor. It might provide him with some light entertainment, and perhaps, he would come up with a completely unscientific definition for all that. 

Something seemed to be wrong with how Irene looked, though. He looked closer at the young woman's face.

"You are so pale".

Irene would much rather not go there. Alas, skipping the point proved not an option. She pushed the plate away (the ragout, against all expectations, turned out rather edible), carefully pulled down her collar and lifted the scarf, opening two scarlet marks on her neck.

"How dared he?" – the lawyer's level voice brimmed with repressed fury. 

"I insisted, – Irene replied firmly, quickly putting her clothes in order, – there was no other way to keep the veneer intact. It only happened once and, trust me, I will not forget it in a hurry. I took a glass of red wine from the Count's cellars, as professor Van Helsing recommended". She fell silent, and that silence, under the lawyer's intense look, went on for some while. "I am reasonably all right now, considering the regular housemaid's schedule. Currently, my heart's desire is to see the time when I can finally have some decent sleep". 

"Your bravery is laudable, – Jonathan said. – In your shoes…"

"…You would hardly fall down in hysterics, I don't think. I feel ashamed. I didn't think I could be much impressed by any type of horrors after what I went through a year ago. Please, Mr Harker, let us leave this subject alone. I would rather hear what you managed to learn".

"Very well, – Jonathan sighed. – I but hope you favour Gothic stories. I am about to impart you with a plot along the lines of what you might read from Hoffman or Mary Shelley". 

"Sounds quite fascinating indeed", – Irene encouraged. 

The lawyer regained his eloquence of speech and told her, sparing no flourishing detail, the full story of the tragic fates which befell Alan Campbell the chemist and Basil Hallward the artist, as well as the role of Mr Dorian Gray, who was the deathly link between the two. 

Irene heard him out without a word, her eyes gleaming. 

"The portrait, – she said softly once he was done, – must be found". The next second, she frowned: "Why are you laughing?"

"Funny how you immediately went straight down to the heart of the matter, – Jonathan said, – and with such a zeal! Have you not had enough in the way of tribulations?"

"Can't you see how boring my life is? – Irene chastely cupped her hands on the tabletop. – However. The portrait, even there is nothing mystical to it, is kept hidden away by Gray, and it cannot be for nothing. It may implicate him in some sort of crime. I will find it".

"Don't even think about it, – Jonathan said, raising his hand to intercept Irene's protests, already on her lips. – It is much too dangerous. Between a domesticated nosferatu and Mr Gray, I would much rather you socialised with the former and totally avoided the latter. Just look to what he has already resorted in his quest to conceal the truth, – he paused briefly. – I am still well less than happy about your venturing to Dorian Gray's house. I would prefer you to leave it as soon as possible". 

"Not a chance, not for now, – the woman shook her head. – Don't you worry about me".

"Not a chance for that, either". 

"You judge by looks, and you misjudge as a result, – Irene sighed. – We of all people should know how deceiving looks can be. There are things in my past which would shock and horrify all my current associates in the society".

"I have not forgotten", – Jonathan replied.

"There was much more. Sinister acquaintances, shady machinations were order of the day. Yet I am still here, and it's not just the sheer luck". Jonathan kept quiet and Irene grinned secretly. "So, I take it, you have tasked Monsieur Eric with the search for this portrait, – she changed the topic but still felt hurt at her capabilities being so blatantly underappreciated. – I can't argue the fact that his talents surpass mine, I must admit".

"It is hard to deny his talents, – Jonathan shook his head. – To be frank, if not for a pressing need, I would prefer to keep well clear from associations like this. Now granted, he can dissipate into the shadows, pick any lock… good heavens, I wouldn't put levitation past him! – Irene covered her mouth with her palm lest she couldn't suppress a chuckle. – Nonetheless, all these skills notwithstanding, what he is hopelessly incapable of is to fit in".

"Oh yes, he is a rather… colourful person. At times, he seems to me not so much of a man as a fictional character that embodies a good measure of pretty much everything… almost everything, that is".

"Except for humanity, from time to time, for example, – Jonathan remarked. – I must admit, though, he studied the house rather well, sketched the design for us, too. He says, there are few areas left where he hasn't yet stuck his… erm… nose in". 

"Mr Harker, you have all the makings of a superb diplomat. With a proper schooling…"

"Three years disciplining", – Jonathan muttering, mimicking Igor's burr. 

"Pardon me?"

Irene's companion blushed a little. 

"Our mutual acquaintance from Transylvania was meaning to make a model servant out of me, – he explained. – According to him, I am less hopeless than is the Professor, and three years of strict training would be enough in my case. Evidently, it would take about as long for meeting diplomatic service's requirements. You know, – he smiled suddenly, – our Count's father once suggested I started to practice in Transylvania. He said it was not an easy task to find a decent solicitor there". 

"I take it, nosferatu don't take kindly to rivals, – Irene gave an understanding not and giggled. – But how could you give up London for Transylvania?"

"I couldn't, never", – Jonathan turned serious and, leaning over the table and turning his head to allow Irene full view, pulled down his own collar, behind which, faded yet still visible, bite marks from sharp fangs were concealed.

"So that's how you know the Count", – Irene whispered and reached for the mark, but her fingers froze in the mid-air.

"That's not from him, – the lawyer turned towards the counter and asked for another pint, which was delivered instantly. Jonathan picked up the mug – and put it back down. – Two years ago I found myself in his uncle's castle, by a mere chance plus some professional duty to be fulfilled. I knew nothing of vampires and did not believe they existed to begin with. However, Count Dracula and his underlings managed to change my views on the matter. Believe me, I would dearly love to forget it all, but every time I look in the mirror, it brings back memories". He yanked at his grey lock. 

"Forgive me, – Irene smiled guiltily. – I always thought the greyness added a romantic air to your looks. I dare to assume, then, it was the nosferatu matter which brought Professor Van Helsing and you together? A common interest?" 

"Yes, he proved to be one of the few who did not think me mad".

"Did you come back to Transylvania afterwards? – Irene asked, and then elaborated: – The Count told me a thing or two, if without going deep into detail. He said he wasn't there at the time…"

"We had to, yes. I wanted to kill Count Dracula, the Professor and some of our friends volunteered to help. They had their own scores to settle with nosferatu. We returned to this cursed place and entered a battle. Well, technically. Calling it a real battle would be a bit of a stretch… all right, a lot of a stretch. Dracula all but annihilated us all. We succeeded at buying ourselves couple of minutes, yet there but for an interference of another nosferatu, went we". 

"Another nosferatu, you say? You mean the Count's father, do you not? – Jonathan nodded. – So that how it was…" She badly wanted to inquire about it all, down to the very essence of what caused the clash, to the slightest detail – so badly, it went beyond normal womanly curiosity. She barely contained herself and asked but one question: "Dracula? The name seems to be familiar".

"It won't be easy to find anyone in London to whom this name would be unfamiliar. The count is a notable figure through and through". 

"How is Monsieur Eric?" 

"They were craving to kill each other on sight, and I can well understand both", – Jonathan waved his hand, and then suddenly realised that Miss Adler hadn't yet learned of the Count's uncle arrival in London. Coming to think of it, he would prefer she still didn't. The less this name is heard, the less trouble goes around. 

"I believe, it's time, – he made a show out of looking at his pocket watch. – Let us come, I will catch a cab".

"A housemaid coming back to duties in a cab is a sheer absurd", – Irene objected after Jonathan paid the bill.

"You will leave here in a cab, – Jonathan was not prepared to discuss the matter. – We go the same way for now. I will tell the cabman to drop you out at the opening of the street, and from there you will proceed on foot. The Park Lane is always buzzing with people, and never short for the police presence. You will be safe and beyond suspicion. I, meanwhile, have yet a visit to pay before tomorrow". 

Irene shivered, once out, as wind suddenly blew again. Jonathan helped her into a cab, jumped in after here and instructed the coacher to drive towards Mayfair. 

The night gymnast's figure separated from a wall, darted past a pair, joined in ecstasy and leapt without even crouching. He grabbed a grill, pulled himself further up, and the next second was on the roof. Another blow of the wind scattered the clouds and the moon lit long gnarled hairy hands, craggy shoulders and mighty legs. The werewolf's mouth part-opened in a malicious grin – his fangs shone, claws scrapped against the thatch like blades – and rushed away.

* * *

Belgravia house, currently rented out to the Count von Vittelburhardtstaufen, was occupied. The windows were lit, shadows flickered behind the closed curtains, and Jonathan knocked on the door which opened instantly, as if inviting him in.

"Your hat and coat, please", – the butler said expressionlessly. He moved in a measured step and looked straight ahead, unblinkingly: an observing layman would think him a somnambula. Jonathan Harker was not a layman. He knew a nosferatu's victim when he saw them – there was no need even to look under the man's collar.

"The master is expecting you", – the servant intoned, opening the reception's doors. 

The lawyer entered. The butler froze behind him. His presence did nothing to cheer Jonathan up, and the blasé air about Dracula, sprawled on his couchette, compounded the visitor's cattishness. 

"I see, you have made yourself fully at home in Belgravia?" – Jonathan's politeness was burningly icy. 

"Well, you did burn down my old London house, – the vampire retorted, unperturbedly. – Whereas rent here is paid in advance until the spring. A man needs somewhere to leave, after all! Do come in, Mr Harker, make yourself comfortable". 

The lawyer marked his time, out of the corner of his eye registering a movement: one of these "genuine English little spiders" the Count was so taken by when looking the house over, busily made his way up the door-post. With lightning, inhuman speed, a white, bloodless hand flickered over Jonathan's shoulder, grabbed the ill-fated spider, and the servant popped the creature into his mouth. 

Dracula grinned, cruelly, jeeringly. 

"Leave us", – he wave his hand nonchalantly and the butler obediently trotted off – perhaps to go on hunting spiders. The door produced no sound as it shut behind him.

"Why?" – Jonathan asked, curtly.

The vampire put his hands up in the air. "I have to eat!"

"You stripped him of free will, turned him into a mindless slave!"

"Ah, a free will… – Dracula's fanged grin returned. – The humankind has a strange, shall we say, not the optimal, way of using this wonderful faculty. Just one example: a tired traveller, stranger in the land, shocked with the alarming news about his dear nephew, comes into this house to have some rest and gather his thoughts, what does the personnel do first? Right: they went about calculating how much monetary gain they could extract from it…" In an instant, he was on his feet, beetling over Jonathan. "All the servants here spied on Aurel! – he bellowed. – They betrayed him every single minute, helping lure him into a trap. The traitors got what was coming to them! If not for our agreement, no one of them would still be living".

Jonathan could barely stand a scarlet-flaring gaze of the vampire.

It was several days since Dracula left the house in Westwick Gardens, and both of them knew what would follow. The arrangement was made, but a fat chance there was that such an ancient and powerful nosferatu would willingly give up an opportunity to make even with his relative's wrongdoers. And the worst thing was, Jonathan at times knew full well that he himself could not quite tell the wrong from the wronged in this particular case. How much easier it would be in a courtroom: he would just take the defence cause of one of the parties and anything left would be to honestly follow his duty… though he would have to choose which party to defend to begin with.

"In my time, traitors did not get off that easily, – the count cooled down a little and moved away. – A drink?" 

"I do not drink blood".

"That was not on offer in the first place, – Dracula countered. – Scotch?" 

Jonathan shook his head again, and the vampire, conveying with his all appearance the message of "yours is the loss", filled his glass and dried it up in one gulp. "What would you say, then, should I tell you that this servant, whose fate concerns you so much, was the one who stabbed my former servant in the back? How would you look at his current state in this case?" 

"Is that really so, or is it a test of my response?" – the lawyer inquired.

"Does it matter? – the vampire grinned. – What would you feel in such case, anyway?" 

"If he really attempted Igor's murder, he deserves to be tried and sent down under", – Jonathan replied. 

"Then I just saved the jury and jailers some valuable time".

The lawyer graced Dracula with a dark glance.

"Is his state revocable?"

"Yes", – the count answered dryly. 

"Free him".

"We shall return to this point later, – the count promised. – But we digress, whereas you came about some sort of business, did you not? I'm all ears".

"I hope so. What the devil were you doing biting this singer? We agreed upon full discretion!" The lawyer smacked an open edition down on the desk. "I bought the latest issue along the way – it flies off the counters, by the way. Can you not do without getting in the headlines? Is it some craving of yours, to get in contact with the police?" 

"Oh, I'm in the news again? – Dracula took the paper away and quickly went through the lines. – I wonder, where do the London reporters come for the news when I'm not here?"

"Rest easy, there is an abundance of scoop in London, – Jonathan reassured. – But I'd like to hear what do you have to say for yourself".

"A charming lady, such a temper, such a passion,.. ah! – the vampire imparted. – As for the concert cancellation, not to worry, the day after tomorrow there will be one. It is not my first invitation to the circles of art. And I am, in certain ways, well-acquainted with its… volatresses". 

"I have my doubts about your being invited with this particular end in mind", – the lawyer lightly tipped his own neck over the collar's edge. Dracula smiled again, showing lengthened fangs.

"If you just knew how often I was invited in, and by what reasons! Ah, humans, what shall I say? Let us speak about humans, – he poured another glass of Scotch and, keeping it in his hand, sank into an armchair, cross-legged. – I know, some of you entertain the notion that the humankind covered a long distance from the savage state, in which it was ruled by base instincts to some spiritual heights. Well, know that, Mr Harker: that's all balderdash. People go to the church, pray, give to charity and consider themselves worthy members of a flock, looking down at me as a spawn of darkness and devil's offspring. But just dangle power, might… immortality in front of him – and they forsake it all, venturing happily into my kingdom of darkness. Or rather, they would venture, if I was stupid enough to bother gathering a crowd of converts around myself. To conclude, a thin decorative veneer aside, the humankind never changes, and whoever thinks different is delusional. The hard cold truth is embodied in Mr Gray who invited me to London. Believe it or not, he brought a crucifix to our fist meeting. Is it not the funniest of jokes – defending oneself with a symbol of faith about to be betrayed by the very brandisher of said symbol?"

"To be precise, Dorian Gray invited the Count's father, not you, after all, – Jonathan sighed. – I can't get my head over him blundering so". 

The count lightly waved this aside. "An excusable misunderstanding, that. Augustus has not been mentioned in the chronicles since he secluded himself in Sigishoara. That is, for about three hundred years. Quite fortunate for Gray, for you and the entire London, for that matter, may I point out. Despite all our past differences, I hold this city dear for the nice memories. My relation looks rather demure, ah, this Saxon type of le chevalier sans peur et sans reproche, as they say in his once-beloved Paris. Little do they know. I myself dread to think what Augustus would do to this fortress of English morality, should he learn that his little boy was… given umbrage here". 

He sipped some more whisky and waved his hand again. 

"By the whim of fate we ended up on the same side and I listen to you for Augustus calls you a friend, as he does Abraham Van Helsing, and that means a lot. For the sake of this, I will offer you an advice, which, I do hope, you will convey to your companion as well".

Jonathan raised his eyebrow most politely. Dracula put half-filled glass on the table and rose to his feet.

"I appreciate the trouble you have gone into for Aurel and me, – he intoned sarcastically. – Mr Van Helsing is a richly experienced man, which, alas, is not always for one's own good, as it might lull one into a sense of false security. So I will be frank: neither you, nor the Professor, nor your French assistant – none of you – are a match to me. I am awaiting a notice from Dorian Gray, and once he invites me in – which he has no way of avoiding – I will enter, and it will be not a good idea to get in my way then". 

"I should say, I in turn appreciate your concern for our safety, – Jonathan responded in tune. – Nevertheless, I have to forewarn you, myself. Gray comes prepared for your visit: he possesses of a dangerous knowledge and has experienced support at his disposal". 

The vampire burst out laughing. "I have seen those aides, the hound aside. They escorted him to our audience. At times such… ahem… hunters happen to bother decent nosferatus in Transylvania. They genuinely believe that, having armed themselves with stakes, holy water and some most basic magical tricks they can pose something of a danger for us". 

"Two years ago, when we met outside your castle for the second time,.. – Jonathan paused, gathering his thoughts. – I keep meaning to ask you, you did repair the gates, did you not? The ones we blew up?" 

Dracula's eyes briefly flared up. "A sheer luck on your part, nothing more, it was. I was in the mood for some amusement – and then August entered the picture and jumbled it all up". 

Jonathan's answer didn't come immediately. It took him a considerable effort in his time to quash the feelings related to the events in question. The memories were indelible, but at least he finally managed to keep what tore him apart for the first weeks after return from Transylvania, at bay. Gradually, he learned to detach himself from it all and recall what happened there with a calm mind, sometimes even humorously. Truly, reason is the greatest protector of the man's fragile soul, and even the most painful experience gets smoothened with time. Yet there were moments when cracks showed in this armour, and then, in his mind's eye, he could see a road winding somewhere in snow-covered woods, down which they rushed back then, at such a breakneck speed, centuries-old tree trunks melded in one dark mass before the eyes. He thought back to burning dusky skies, shards of rock sent flying by the explosion – they spared no dynamite – and blood splattering in the air. Vampire smiled at them as if they were old friends, but no one could come any closer, because a slender figure of a woman stood on the way.

There were times when Jonathan thought it would be better to die together with Quincy Morris rather than live to remember – to his dying day he would – Mina's huge dark eyes and her wordless beseeching: "Forgive me, please, please, please, forgive…" and never be able to escape the fact of his defeat. He lay down his weapon then and turned away, waiting for the final blow – only to meet the eye of another vampire, Count Augustus von Vittelburchartschtaufen… 

It took him an entire second to get his composure back. Luckily, Dracula was too preoccupied with his plans of retaliation to notice there was any hobble in the conversation. 

"I remember my error well enough not to repeat it with Gray", – the Count declared with confidence. 

"Far as I can see, – Jonathan leaned on the wall and ginned acidly, – you have no intention of waiting or playing any longer. Instead, you'd rather storm into the house, kill all the household, defile the corpses and burn what's left to the ground?"

"I like the way you think! – the vampire snapped his fingers in approval. – What a pity you were born too late. About a century and a half ago, there could be hope for you yet!" 

"I am flattered, – the lawyer retorted coldly. – You are not the first, mind, who tips me for a successful change of career". 

Dracula tilted his head, clearly meaning to go on with his thought, but once he spoke, it was a complete change of tack. "Someone is nearing the house, – he said. – I doubt this human knows about me, otherwise I'd sensed his fear miles away. I suppose, that must be Gray's messenger. Pity. I counted on him sending the werewolf. I could kill him then". The vampire beckoned for Jonathan. They went to the hallway together. 

In minutes, there was a knocking on the door. The pale butler darted to the door, but the Count gestured for him to stop. "Be off. I will do it".

Jonathan stood by the wall near the entrance, so that the newcomer could not see him. Dracula flung the doors open theatrically, letting a chilling blow of wind in, accompanied by a couple of snowflakes.

"I have a message from Mr Dorian Gray for the Count Dracula, – the man on the threshold could barely move his lips, whitened by the cold. The nosferatu's predatory grin, apparently, meant to encourage the messenger on. – Mr Gray said, tomorrow, at his place, two hours before noon".

Without betraying any knowledge of any manners, Dracula slammed the door shut and turned to Jonathan, all smiles and genuine happiness. "Finally, – he said, clearly inspired, – at long last! Now I will my chance to finish this cursed hound, his damned master and everyone around them!"


	21. Irene Adler's Honeymoon

Upon her return to the mansion after meeting with Jonathan Harker, Irene had got a headache. Blood throbbed in her veins, sickness came in waves. She went up to the room she shared with Jane, took off her clothes and went to bed in the hopes for the pain to recede soon. For hours she agonized, turning from side to side, trying to get her head comfortable on a flat hard pillow. Finally, a heavy, dreamless sleep came over her.

Awakening was sharp and sudden. She opened her eyes and sat up. The headache disappeared, but nor could she sleep any longer. Irene flung a shawl over her shoulders and edged out into the corridor. It was quiet and dark in servants' quarters. Moving ahead almost entirely by touch, she slipped into the kitchen, poured herself a mug of milk and sat at the solid table. Moonlight filtered through a small window, painting whitish foggy strips on the well-scrubbed floor. There were still several hours before the dawn…

Irene thought over what Jonathan told her… and even harder – about what he did not. Mr Dorian Gray, indubitably, concealed a lot, and, sure enough, he was a danger. Even more so than was the Count, she had to admit. With nosferatu, at least, you knew where you stand and what to expect. It was different with a pampered nobleman. She got on her feet resolutely, rinsed the mug and put it away. She would talk to Eric in the morning and they would look through the entire house. Now, however, it would be a good idea to get some decent sleep.

Irene closed the bedroom door behind her, pulled at her shawl – and this very moment, Jane, who was sniffling peacefully under a grey blanket, stirred, moaned briefly and abruptly sat up.

Her wide-open eyes were completely blank, night-capped head thrown back. Irene froze, stunned, watching the girl rise from her bad and stalk towards the door, barefoot, legs unbending. 

"Ja… Jane?" – Irene called, and then it suddenly dawned on her: the little housemaid was responding to a nosferatu's calling! The Count must have gotten hungry… or in need of some entertainment.

Irene grabbed Jane's hand and could barely help herself snatching her own hand back. The girl's palm was ice-cold. The touch, however, woke her up, Jane shuddered and started blinking.

"Mary, what's happened? – she jabbered. – Where am I, now? What///"

"I think, you just got ragged over the day, dearie", – Irene answered tenderly, helping Jane back to the bad.

"Yes, – the housemaid nodded resignedly, letting Irene blanket her up to her chin. – It was a hard day. Sit with me, Mary", – she asked, and sank deep into sleep momentarily. 

For a minute or two Irene stayed at the edge of her bed listening to the girl's breathing, then put the shawl back on and exited.

The Count sat back in the armchair, cross-legged, a book on an armrest. When he turned his head slightly towards the door, he looked slightly vexed, but this look turned instantly into a sheer shock as their eyes met. 

"Would you care to explain yourself? – Irene asked coldly. – I seem to remember, your dinner is served by Mr Gray's valet, is it not?"

"Miss Adler, – Aurel did his best to avoid looking her into the eye, – I… I am so very sorry… I… chose to sate my hunger now, lest later… lest this dog brings your in again!"

In the way of explanation, this sounded ridiculous, yet Irene believed him. 

"Forgive me, I came this close to ruining it all again, – Aurel sighed. – But how come you are here?"

"Insomnia, – Irene replied, sitting down on the edge of the armchair opposite the Count's he offered her. – But now that I am here, Aurel, I need to ask you about something". The young man gestured invitingly. "I met Mr Harker today, and he told me many interesting things as regards to Mr Gray".

"Oh, Mr Gray is quite and intriguing character, indeed", – Count remarked sardonically. 

"You are still not aware of the ends to which he captured you, are you? – Irene inquired. The Count shook his head once. – How much have you learned about his person, per se?"

"Very little, I'm afraid. Nothing more than senses, shadows of emotions… I used to believe him quite an attractive specimen of your kind, once". 

"And now? What do you think of him now?"

"When I met him no more often than once in several days, – the Count thoughtfully swayed his boot's toe, – I didn't stop to think about the inner paradoxes I felt emanating from him. I am not boasting my capabilities, Miss A… Irene. They just come with our nature, pack and parcel". 

" I see".

"Now, however, I share the roof with him. And… by heavens, how strange it is that you are asking about this just now! Now I can tell you… Mr Gray is not who he pretends to be".

Irene's eyebrows shot up in surprise.

"I don't know how to explain it, – the Count sighed, abated. – If only you could sense what I sense…"

"It is vitally important, Aurel. – Irene said, with feeling. – Try and find the words, please".

"And in English, no less! – this time the Count's sigh sounded by far less genuine. – All right, I will try. Mr Gray… is someone else's shadow, a reflection. He is like a…"

"His own walking portrait", – Irene whispered.

Aurel got up and was near the cupboard before she had time to blink. Next flash of a movement, and there was a glass right in front of Irene.

"It's my uncle's favourite, – the Count introduced. – Have a drink, you are shaking". 

Irene sipped obediently. It was a Tokay, and of marvellous bouquet. 

"For how long have you known Mr Harker? – the Count asked meanwhile. – It seems to me, you mentioned he was a friend of yours". There was a certain tone to his voice, rather reminiscent of jealousy. 

Irene smiled, despite herself. "It is a long story".

"Well, since you can't sleep anyway,.. – her partner in conversation drawled. – I am so intrigued, verily…"

Irene fell silent for quite a while. It appeared as if the memories she so carefully pushed deep down, away from the surface, into the very farthest recesses of her soul, were waiting there just for this very moment. They came up swarming before her mind's eye, colliding, clattering. Past events went flashing, one after another: a wonderful cottage she rented, the musical salon of Mrs Larkin, music sheets, dresses, Hyde Park, that little French café at the Gallery… 

"A year and half ago, – she started finally, turning her sight into the past, – I got married. We met each other at a musical salon. I sang something, I seem to remember, by Offenbach – and then caught someone looking at me, admiringly. Women feel things like that, even with their backs. We were then introduced. I fell under his charm, then in love, lost my mind completely… I forgot myself to the point of turning blind eye to some unpleasant details…

You see, after I retired from singing, I felt kind of empty inside. All my life that far was dedicated to the music, theatre, audience – and then there was none of that any more. I was craving to fill the hole in my soul. I needed to feel something in place of what was gone. Love seemed a tempting idea.

His name was Godfrey Norton. A successful lawyer, he was, a gentleman, wealthy, handsome in that manly way which sweeps many a woman off their feet. We had a brief affair which ended up in a betrothal, leading to a ceremony in some small church at some London's lane. It didn't look strange to me then – at least, not strange enough to start asking questions. Godfrey went out of his way to keep our relationship secret. I did not have any family or close friends in London, none of those who are supposed to be present at a wedding. Even as a witness, we had almost an entire stranger, a chance encounter… I hear, he then perished, somewhere in Switzerland… Immediately after the ceremony, Godfrey hurried me away from London, coming up with the idea to spend our honeymoon in Scotland. I thought it very romantic.

Have you ever been to Scotland, Aurel? Neither had I, at the time. We came to Aberdeen, a city of wondrous beauty. It was an idyll embodied. For the entirety of three days, it was…

**_Irene's story_ **

"I remember the sweetest start of the last day of my married bliss all too well. I remember waking up early, getting up, getting dressing, glancing some bric-a-brac on the toiletries table with my sleeve and getting worried about waking my husband up with this noise. Then I discovered that Godfrey whose sleep I was so keen to guard, had been up for some while already, carefully avoiding stirring me in turn. I must confess, I was vexed somewhat, after being so quiet and careful, all for nothing. But the warmth of his care was palpable. I was so happy then.,,

At our first arrival, the city felt dull and cold to me. Grey streets, grey granite of the walls, I remember myself slinking deeper into my coat and cloak, trying to stave away unhappy thoughts. It was Godfrey's plan to go to Scotland once we got married, he said that in French Riviera or Swiss Alps there was about as much of a chance to run into an acquaintance, as there was in London, whereas he wanted to spend all his time with me alone, as far from all societal requirements as was possible. I went for it. In days, we disembarked an Aberdeen-bound ship. 

I must say, I was coming to regret this at the time. Yet it felt as the most horrible thing in the world, to start a new life as Mrs Godfrey Norton with rueing. So I gathered all my presence of mind to smile. Why, my husband described the city to me so vividly, took all this trouble for me, how could I now sadden him with my whingeing? So I just walked on, quietly, deep in thought…

And right there, in that street, Godfrey took my hand, stopping me in my tracks, and pointed upwards. I saw an edge of a cloud, just as grey as was the entire city, lit up, the shining got ever more intense, equalling in fierceness a melted metal in a forge – then lo and behold, the circle of sun emerged in all its glory. The granite, so dull and sad on a murky day, turned out full of silver sparkles when touched by sun rays. The street did not look grey any more. That was I decided on seeing the dawn there, whatever the cost. 

Aberdeen is situated in the East Coast of Scotland, so the weather changes constantly there. Still, unlike London, it has more sun than rain, on the whole. We spent all the day walking, Godfrey showing the city off to me as if it was his own garden, lovingly and caringly cultured. I understood his attachment then, I shared it with all my heart. 

Yet, much as I tried, I couldn't completely cast away my worries. We left London in less than advantageous circumstances. Some associations and actions of mine in my past put me in danger and in the last days before our departure I managed to make one enemy more – a strong, clever and dangerous one, at that. It was the best private detective in the country. Even though I was successful in getting him off my track, I knew full well that my past could look up at me from under the hat of any random passer-by, any time. 

I felt we were watched the moment we set foot in Aberdeen. This nasty, heavy feeling came over me all of a sudden, time and time again, overshadowing the happiest of times, every instance when my eyes fell on a silhouette of a dark-coated man. He kept his distance at all times, but by the third day of this, I had no doubts left – I was followed. 

I was admiring the dusk and at the same time sought the words persuasive enough for my husband, so he would believe I was not just afraid of shadows. 

But at our next breakfast, before I had time to say anything to him, Godfrey spoke first. "There is some unforeseen business arising, – he said. – While you were asleep, I received a telegram. Even though the very thought of parting with you at our honeymoon fills me with pain, I have to sacrifice few hours to my job. Forgive me. But we shall still have plenty of opportunities, there is no limits to Aberdeen's beauty, after all. Use a cab, tell the coacher to get you to Union Terrace."

"It doesn't look to me the best time to visit a park", – I said.

"Quite the contrary, – Godfrey objected. – All this greenery gets in the way of appreciating the wonders of design". 

I smiled back at him, but immediately confessed I'd rather not stay alone. 

"The men who followed us yesterday… what if they were sent by him?"

"Nonsense, – he shook his head resolutely. – This self-important possessive fanfaron will never find you, and nor will that private detective. Though, God knows, I would never give up looking if I was him. Trust me, my beloved, – he capped my shoulders tenderly in his hands, making me facing him, – all your anxieties are now a thing of the past".

But I extricated myself from his arms.

"You don't know these people as well as I do!" – perhaps, I was too passionate in my plea, but I had to make him believe me.

Godfrey sat down in his armchair and just shook his head.

"I made inquiries just before we left, – he said. – As you must remember, I have my connections in London. This story is over. You are free now – except from the bounds of marital vows, that is. These people are most likely just travellers, much like we are".

He kept talking. He said our paths crossed just because all visitors tend to go to the same place; that he would show me much more than the most detailed guide would contain; that there are, however, attractions to be seen first and foremost…

"Besides, – he squinted at me with mirth, – I am less than happy at the thought that, just days after our marriage, my new bride pays so much attention to strange men". 

I had no other option than just go with it.

Sun shone brightly in the window, luring, calling to move out fast, to enjoy the warmth of its rays, but I knew by then how deceptive this call could be. It is much cooler in Aberdeen on a sunny day than it is in London. I had to wrap myself up well, feeling a little envious towards well-weathered locals. Just a little, for such a feeling is unbecoming to a good Christian and ought to be suppressed. 

I followed Godfrey's advice and settled on starting my little journey in Union Terrace. The walk got longer than I planned it to be. True enough, an early spring is not the most suitable of times to inspect a park, but even then it remained the favourite spot among the ladies of the town. I made quite some acquaintances in no time. I sought a company, whereas the ladies sought a sympathetic ear to impart the news, both the latest and a bit cooled-down ones, not to mention a particularly exciting piece of gossip or two. 

My new conversant loved to chat, so much so that, a few hours down the line, my head ached and I felt in need of fresh air and at least some quiet. I hoped it would help me clear my head, so I made my excuses, bade my goodbyes – and suddenly, my eyes fell on a picturesque building on the other side of the street. That was just a start: the architect, whoever he was, did more than just a good job of an ensemble, which positively beckoned to look further, to enjoy every detail, to follow along the whole set. Without even realising it, I moved further and further away from the park, and by the by ended up in a narrow empty street, all alone. Not so long ago I would be glad of it – in my journeys, I loved to discover new towns from inside, losing myself in the maze of their lanes. But after certain goings-on, such pastime no longer pleased me, to say the least. 

I looked around – perhaps, more nervously than I would like to let anyone in on –I spotted a dark contour of a man moving towards me, slowly, but surely. I was scared, but I contained myself. It is just a passer-by, I told myself. What danger could there be, anyway? Nonetheless, I craved to leave this deserted place, ever more by a minute. I headed off, quickly, straining my ears for a sound of somebody's steps behind me, just in case, but there was no other sound than clicking of my own heels. The man, apparently, took some turn and went on about his business a while ago. I ached to look back to make sure and calm down, but did not dare. A short while later I came out to a wide crowded street and breathed a sigh of relief. Forgive me going into so much detail about my feelings, it is hardly of interest to you… but at least, you now have quite a good idea of my state at the time. 

So then, having overcome my fears, I noticed a sign on a small restaurant, about ten yards from me. It was long before dinner time and I decided it would not spoil my appetite to have a little cup of coffee. 

It was so cosy inside… Three respectable-looking gentlemen strenuously made way through their meal with flatware, pausing occasionally to exchange brief observations; a young couple by the window couldn't took their eyes off each other, their love conquering all and leaving their tea irrevocably cold. Two girls, looking astonishingly alike, had a dessert under the watchful eye of their governess, whereas the third child, a boy of about eight, seized a big mug of cocoa and made no bones about his preparedness to defend it to the last gulp. I took a table away from the window to escape undue attention, and ordered a coffee.

I was having my cup, thinking about soon being on my way back to the hotel, in a cab, and Godfrey had better be back by the time I return, with all his boring lawyer duties firmly behind him… It didn't even register with me at first that a man at the table nearby was addressing me. So at first, I didn't even respond.

He said something trivial about the weather. I turned to him to return the triviality, but words froze on my lips. Right then and there, up close to me, there was the very man who followed Godfrey and I the day before. All my fears and worries came back to me threefold. 

I badly wanted to ask this man what he wanted with me, what kind of game he was playing, to demand him to leave me alone. For a moment, I even thought it was that detective, famous for his skills of disguise, catching up with me. I did remember, though, almost instantly, that he was much higher than this stranger. So I just looked this unexpected interlocutor over, seeing that he was rather young, not at all bad-looking, and, judging by his speech, English rather than Scottish, a Londoner, chances were.

"Yes, perhaps", – I said coolly, making it more than clear that I was not in the mood to chat. My transparent hint went unheeded, however.

"A sun, now that's a sight I haven't had the pleasure of enjoying for months, it feels like, – he said and then went on to inform me that he came to Aberdeen from London, which I guessed myself. – Does The Silver City please you?"

"I have never heard of such a name", – I said.

"Aberdeen bears more than just one nickname, – the young man explained. – I like this one the most".

I recalled the granite facades, the way they shone under the rays of sun, and decided that the Silver City was a befitting name for Aberdeen. 

"It is quite beautiful", – I agreed and quietly derided myself for recklessness. I was entering a game with an unknown party, and not for the first time. I will try for a game even in afterlife, it looks like.

"Where are my manners, though? – the young man appeared to read my thoughts. – I omitted the introductions which is inexcusable. My name is Jonathan Harker".

That's how we met for the first time. I mistook him for an agent sent after me.

Still, I was caught unawares and wasn't forthcoming with a quick answer – he beat my expectations. Those who I used to gamble against before were not much inclined to talk and even less so to naming names. I introduced myself in turn and realised how unsure of myself I sounded. On the other hand, so much the better if I was heard by all around: after all, my intentions were to make this Mr Harker understand I was aware of his plans and to demand explanations. Whoever he was, he would not dare to apprehend me in this restaurant in the broad light of day…

A doorbell rang, and a new visitor – a lively broad-shouldered gentleman, well on life, maybe fifty years old, entered the venue. He looked around quickly and headed straight toward Mr Harker's table.

"Such a good job you knew to hide from the rain right here, my friend!" – he exclaimed happily.

Rain? What rain? I turned towards the window and was startled by the sudden violent change of weather in such a short time. It did rain, not too badly, but it would be beyond unreasonable to have a walk outside right now. It seemed, Mr Harker was no less surprised than was I.

"For heaven's sake, what is with this English weather?" – the aged man lamented.

"Scottish, Professor, – the young man corrected him. – We are in Scotland now".

But the man he addressed as Professor just waved it away.

He sat opposite us, ordered a coffee and introduced himself.

"I am Professor Abraham Van Helsing. It appears you have already made an acquaintance of my friend Jonathan Harker. But I must ask your forgiveness, young lady and gentleman, I interfered in your conversation, did I not?"

We exchanged glances and I inwardly patted myself on the back for not talking too soon. It looked like I yielded to a silly and unfounded panic attack and thus came this close to be publicly embarrassed. 

"So then, – Professor Van Helsing proclaimed merrily, – let us speak about weather. I must admit, my spirits were lifted upon arrival in Aberdeen when we saw clear skies here. After London, I feel like I am returning from the kingdom of ancient murky beliefs. Nibelheim hier. Durch bleiche Nebel was bitzen dort feurige Funken… – he quoted, in a sudden abstraction. 

I recognised the quote instantly. "It's Niebelheim here, fiery sparks glitter in a pale mist"… The Gold of Rhine, it was. I heard this opera in Venice. 

"And I was fortunate enough to see the premiere, – the Professor said, once I mentioned it. – Haven't managed to see it since, though, not once…"

His coffee arrived – a thick, strong drink, overwhelmingly fragrant, it just demanded to be followed with another helping straight away, to which demand Jonathan Harker obediently complied, at one glance at the pitiful remains of his own order. I hesitated a little and joined in with their choice. 

Professor Van Helsing, meanwhile, relayed that he came to the city on invitation of his friend and colleague who was a lecturer in Aberdeen University, to consult the learned community about recent archaeological digging of the mounds here.

"Are you a scientist as well, Mr Harker?" – I asked as the Professor paused for another sip of cooling-down coffee as a source of further inspiration. 

"No, – he seemed a bit daunted. – I am a lawyer".

"Which is a great shame! – Van Helsing finished with his coffee and joined the conversation again. – I have been telling you that for ages, my friend: you are wasting your considerable talent! You are richly gifted as far as research is concerned!"

"And that helps me a lot in my current field of occupation! – Mr Harker countered. – Tell me please, Mrs Norton, is your husband by any chance that very Godfrey Charles Norton, esquire?"

"The very same, – I nodded. – Do you know each other?"

"Not in person, I'm afraid, – the young man sighed. – But I am well aware of his cases and methods. Some of my colleagues say he is smiled upon from the above".

I felt a wave of pride coming over me and at the same time some regret that my husband told me almost nothing about his work, considering it inappropriate and not being of any interest to me. 

"In this case, Professor and you could pay us a visit, if you please, – I suggested. – How about joining us at the supper? My husband would surely be glad to meet you".

This time, the men exchanged glances. 

"Such an invitation is a great honour for us, – Professor Van Helsing said. – My colleague and I will gladly accept it. But today we have an appointment at the university. Would it be convenient for you to choose another date, upon consulting your husband?"

I bit my tongue. It was completely out of line on my part, forgetting about what would Godfrey say about all that. To conceal my embarrassment, I sipped from my cup one more time and kept it in my palms to warm them up.

"It stopped raining", – Jonathan Harker observed.

Very well, I decided, it's all right, after all. Having graced them with appropriate societal smile, I pulled on my gloves.

"All the best to you, gentleman. Glad to have met you". 

When I came back to the hotel, Godfrey still hadn't returned – his business proved more bothersome than he expected. However, he sent a huge bouquet of flowers and put all his wit and literary talents into composing the pleading for my forgiveness the note among the flowers contained. It ended with a solemn oath to atone for his sins at the dinner. I read it all over again and sighed: as if I could be angry with him for any considerable amount of time…

Once down in the restaurant, I spotted Godfrey's crisp profile at once. He was at the table he took fancy to before. However – which irked me a little – he was not alone there. A stranger occupied the seat opposite him, talking to my husband agitatedly. I came closer and both jumped from their respective seats, with no less vigour than shown by a soldier at the signal of alert. They looked rather droll next to each other: tall, fit, black-haired and black-moustached Godfrey Norton, a picture of handsomeness, – and his old university buddy John Comyn, as he was introduced to me: an array of freckles all over his fair skin, reflecting the colour of his flamingly red hair, short but stumpy, square-shouldered, surely an avid sportsman. 

He immediately went into a flurry of thickly burred colourful compliments and reproaches. The former were directed at me, the latter, at my husband.

"What on earth came over you, landing in Aberdeen like that, without a single word of warning? Here I am now, learning about my friend being here by a pure chance! No, old chum, don't even argue, you deserve a right beating-up for this! To add insult to injury, you didn't even invite me to your wedding!" 

"We did not have a flourishing ceremony, – Godfrey smiled. – We ran out on the society, Irene and I, without telling a soul about our plans. The last thing we needed was auntie Dryn with her inspired suggestions". 

"Just like that, abandoned the Belgravia, leaving them guessing? – John exclaimed admiringly. – That's just great! And who was the best man, old chum Keith, I gather?" 

"No, – Godfrey's mood suddenly turned sour, – though rely on him I did. Just imagine what this dimwit came up with: just on the day of our wedding, in response to my note with the church's address, he went and wrote back that he injured his ankle and doctors forbade him any walks whatsoever!" 

"I can bet you were beside yourself! – his friend laughed. – You will tell me all of it once safely in the castle". 

I turned to Godfrey, quietly demanding explanations. Before responding, my husband momentarily averted his eyes. 

"John invites us to have the rest of our honeymoon in his family castle beside the sea".

"…And will not take no for an answer, – the Scot affirmed. – My old friend, my mentor, spending his honeymoon with his sunshine of a wife, in some measly hotel? Blasted if I will stand for it! The apartments will be fully prepared by tomorrow, dinnertime!" 

I saw then and there that arguing would be pointless. Nor that I was much in the mood to, anyway: "a family castle beside the sea" had a nice to ring to it. 

John declared he had to finish some business in Aberdeen, so he would spend this night in the same hotel, too, and then guide us around the whereabouts, first thing after the breakfast. Godfrey said that even if we did out best to get lost around the castle, we still would fail, and John seemed happy to go on with the joke.

Next day, when John's personal carriage was transporting us from the station, I realised, once and again, that true words were often spoken in jest. The castle, an imposing mass of grey stone, towered on a cliff over the sea, waves splashing against its walls throughout the harsh winters, full of storms. Centuries ago it was a fortress, an outpost, at that, and invaders from the sea met a tough welcome here. John proudly relayed to us the most heroic episodes of the building's history and if you were to believe him, Scotland stayed unoccupied only by the valiant efforts of his ancestors. 

The servants brought our luggage to our room, but we barely had time to change before John entered and enthusiastically proclaimed us his absolute and unquestionable property. In the next several hours, I was introduced to: a) huge dining hall, furnished with the antiquities of stunning beauty; b) an armoury which would turn any weapons buff emerald-green with envy; c) an entire gallery of portraits of well-born Comyns and their relatives, sorted by the importance of their deeds; d) and, to round it all up, a wonderful view from the sky tower. The cold wind worked diligently on getting us back to the premises, yet I categorically refused to leave the viewpoint. In fact, I would gladly take enjoying this sight over the whole hog of the other attractions this city had on offer.

I then noticed the remnants of some old construction about half a mile from the castle, quite close to the steep: a wide landing, pillars around it, though not all weathered the ruthless onslaught of time – some crumbled to the ground – but the rest still preserved the overall shape of the layout. It resembled the ruins of ancient Roman sanctums – I saw a lot of them in Italy. The only odd thing was the building material: usually marble was used for such purposes, but this local lustreless stone didn't look remotely like it. I touched Godfrey's shoulders to point the columns out to him, but my husband didn't show even a flicker of interest. I even felt slightly injured… Ah well. Since we were destined to stay here for more than three days, I would have enough time for my own exploration…

Upon our return we learned that John was expected some friends by the supper, and it turned out Godfrey knew them too, from long ago, in his university days. John explained they planned to have a fishing holiday together, just as well, everything coming together so nicely… I groaned inwardly: much good it did us to escape the unbearable socialising with "the circle" in London, only to run into the same thing here in Scotland! 

After dinner, Godfrey and John retired somewhere to discuss the most important matters of British politics. I was left to my own devices and chose to take another walk around the castle. My route passed the billiard room, where, of course, I found my husband together with the landlord. I didn't intervene, but paused near an open door, behind which neither could see me. Godfrey was an apt player, but just then his friend caught him out at an error and sent away to an armchair to have some rest. Have you ever seen an experienced billiardist preparing for a strike? Trust me when I say, it's quite a show. John circled the pool table several times, at a quick trot, looking at the balls from various angles, then chalked the cue, took his aim, jumped aside and reached for the chalk again. It was a funny scene to look at. Finally, it appeared, John resolved to strike – yet there was another delay: he made quite a spectacle of rolling up his sleeves. I could but silently wish Godfrey patience – I truly felt for him at the moment. Hunching over the table, John stretched his hand, pressed his fingers against its cloth, readying a makeshift bridge for the cue – and his cuff bared, revealing a net of dark tattoo lines. Godfrey wore the same ornament on his. 

I was rather taken aback by it once: how could a thing like this blight the skin of a man of society? "Just a silly boyish stunt", – Godfrey muttered casually, but was rather quick to re-cover his cuffs. It didn't seem good enough, but my husband was a master of evasion, I had to admit it, much as I wanted to question him further. So I was somewhat glad to see the same instance on John's hands: the Scott was talkative enough for me to hope for more sincerity on his part. 

The supper – a very ceremonious one, I must note, with all the appropriate intermissions and valets lining the walls, much like the guard at a parade, – was enjoyed fully by us all. We talked, exchanged jokes, reminiscing on amusing goings-on from our respective pasts. But by the end of the meal I felt a bit odd, excused myself by intense tiredness and took my leave of the guests. I went to sleep just as I hit the pillow, as if being overcome by a grey mist. I slept fast – but not for long. Soon cold awakened me. I was laid down on a slab of stone, among half-crumbled pillars of the sanctum which drew my attention so intensely on the day before. 

I tried to stir, which resulted in a cruel bout of swimming in the head and nausea. I was too week even for taking a deep breath, forget about freeing from the ropes tying my hands. It wasn't a particularly tight grip, mind: I had a chance to pull free under other circumstances, but not in my current shape. Then and there, this loose rope might as well be shackles made of steel. Where was Godfrey? What happened? What would become of me? I felt tears coming, and it wasn't an easy task to stop them flowing out. 

The darkness of night was eaten at by the torchlight. These torches were fastened to the columns of the sanctum, and in the middle of the landing, flame burned as well. Yet, despite my stone being placed right next to it, I didn't feel any warmth. 

Music played – a plangent sound, intertwined with human voices in a strange, torturous melody. I started to discern the words: it was Latin, monstrously crippled and broken, but still recognisable. "For you, our Overlord, we brought an offering… To you… we call…" Over and over again, the words sounded, painfully echoing in my head. 

I turned it, with effort, and singled out people's silhouettes between the pillars. In minutes, they surrounded me. Seven men in long embroidered robes, seven faceless hooded figures, upraised their hands over their helpless victim. Their cuffs were covered by the familiar – by then – symbols. 

They circled me slowly, screaming the words I couldn't manage to make any sense of, raising their hands, turning their backs to me, over and over again. There seemed to be no end to it, even my fear was dulled by the sheer longevity of the rite. Finally, they all froze motionless, only the tallest of them stepped forward. A dagger blade glittered in his hand, ran along my cheek – no pressing, almost an impalpable movement, it was, but I was in turn frozen by horror. With the next sharp stroke, my nightgown was slashed. He bent over me, then put the dagger against my bared skin and this time pressed, just a little. A drop of blood appeared, but it felt all but painless.

But the most terrifying thing of all was the face I saw under the hood… my husband's face. 

"Godfrey, Godfrey! – I cried. – What are you doing?"

He pulled back and calmly put his hand over my mouth.

"You are having a great honour bestowed on you! – he said imperiously. – Very soon, you will meet our Overlord".

He threw his hood back with both hands, baring his head under the night sky. The rest of the group followed, and I recognised John Comyn and his bunch of friends we sat together with for a supper. I was right all along to suspect a trap. But it wasn't revenge of an insulted king that caught up with me, nor was it an outwitted detective craving to get even. It was my one and only beloved who betrayed me. 

"Come to us, Master!" – seven voices called in unison. 

Pale mist flowed into the sanctum, its clubdom filling the space in moments, rising higher and higher. Music sounded again, voices grew ever louder in this monstrous calling. Black lines of the tattoos changed colour, growing blood-scarlet, fluorescing from inside. It had to be an awful nightmare or the last delirium of agony. Or perhaps I was dead already, without even noticing, and in the middle of joining the multitude of disembodied shadows wandering the Nebelheim… 

Suddenly, a hollow drumbeat broke into the melody. Everybody fell silent and parted reverently, making the way for something invisible, nearing from outside the sanctum. In the quiet, I heard sea waves still splashing against the stone under the cliff. The torches died out with a soft hiss. But the flame in the middle of the temple shot up, stretching to the human height. It was the only space in the entire sanctum which was free of the mist. Something dark and shapeless, as if the dead of night condensed, slowly came over the precipice. 

"Master!" – the priests cried, falling to their knees.

A mass of horrible tentacles slithered over the floor and stopped beside me. A shoot covered in disgusting sucker cups touched my bare foot. Then it turned out I still had quite some strengths left in me – enough to scream in horror. 

Godfrey Norton stretched out his hand. "Here is my sacrifice!" – he shouted dully, pointing at me. 

And this very moment blood shot out of his hand – someone was accurate enough with his pistol to break the bone with one bullet. 

One madness gave way to another: two men armed with wheel guns rushed in to the sanctum and fired away. Terrible robed shapes screamed, someone tried to fight, only to be thrown off by an expert, strong blow. Dogs barked in the distance, feet stamped right behind. Police whistles cut into the cacophony. 

"Cowards!" – Godfrey, enraged, waved his wounded hand. Drops of blood flashed brightly, much like oil on fire. Immediately, a tentacle entwined my husband's waist. For a brief instant he looked at me, puzzled, then turned his eyes to his dreadful Overlord. He tried to extricate himself, waggling, but to no avail – the monster's grip was unbreakable. Another tentacle hugged his shoulders. Then the mass started to move away. And only then he screamed…

I felt the ropes tying me get loose. Someone cut the knots, got me up and I heard a man's voice commanding: "Take her away, Jonathan". Then I went down in a swoon.

Having regained consciousness, I wasn't too quick to open my eyes, wary of what I might see. It might be that the slab of stone, robed seven and monstrous cuttlefish was just a dream of mine, with wounded imagination inserting even Godfrey in the picture. Or was my miraculous rescue a near-death dream? 

Out of the blue, an acid smell hit my nostrils, getting into my head, making me wave it away impulsively – hitting someone along the way, it seemed – and I opened my eyes. I was laying on a narrow bed, carefully blanketed, and there was a grey-haired gentleman on a chair beside me. I knew him instantly – it was Professor Van Helsing. 

"You are awake, my good lady, – he smiled and put away a piece of cotton wool, still smelling sharply. – Let me check your pulse".

I let him have my hand obediently, and, once he was satisfied with his test, tried to sit up. Van Helsing helped me to sit more comfortable, fluffed up the pillows and stuck them behind me in a makeshift backrest. 

"Where am I?"

"It's the Chestnut Throne Hotel. My friend and I brought you here. How are you? You spent too much time outside in the cold for comfort".

"I wasn't cold, – I said. – At the very start, maybe, then the slab seemed to get warmer… A slab, my God…" I wept, nesting my face in the blanket. Van Helsing sat close and half-hugged me, holding my shoulders, for which I was grateful. 

There was a soft knocking on the door. Van Hesling shoved a handkerchief into my hands and rose to open the door. I quickly wiped my tears away, stole a glance into a mirror on the wall, concluded that I looked a mess, and the devil may care.

The Professor returned with his assistant and I remembered the name of that young man: Jonathan Harker. Upon laying his eyes on me, he averted them immediately, but not before they widened considerably. Van Helsing snorted, took a bundle from his hands and gave it to me. He then nodded to Jonathan, and they both disappeared into a small room adjacent to mine. 

Unrolling the bundle, I found my clothes, and in a minute a girl in the servant's dress peeked in. She was there to help me dress and comb myself. She asked what would I have for breakfast. The cuisine of the hotel did not boast particular gourmet delicacies, but at the time it didn't matter much. 

Once the housemaid served our breakfast and left, Van Helsing and Harker glanced out of their room. By then, I looked more or less decently, so they didn't at all mind to join me at the meal. 

"Tell our guest what you learned, Jonathan", – the Professor asked, while skilfully handling knife and fork. He told me later on that night adventures whetted his appetite something wild. 

"As I would expect, there will be no thorough investigation, – Mr Harker reported. – The circumstances of the tragedy are so dreadful, whereas the involved criminals are of so high standing, the local police have no burning desire to dig out the actual truth. They did arrest John Comyn and his buddies, the poor devil speaks willingly, but what he tells them will land him in an asylum in the end".

"What about my husband?" – I asked.

"His body was discovered in the sea, rather close to the shore, – John Harker paused before answering. – The police concluded that he slipped off the cliff in the dark of night, and sensibly refrained from further inquiries".

"Why did he do it? – I felt tears welling up in me again. – What he subjected me to this for?" 

"Mrs Norton… – Van Helsing's palm covered mine and fell silent for a while, gathering his thoughts. – Mrs Norton, it pains me to say it, but your late husband was a demon-worshipper, a cruel, treacherous and incredibly dangerous person. He chose you as a sacrifice to his lord".

"But it's sheer madness! – I cried. – We are on the brink of the 20th century, and here you are talking about demons as easily as if… as if… they… truly existed?" 

Professor Van Helsing opened his mouth to answer, but Mr Harker cut in firs.

"Mrs Norton, – he said, – what happened to you was neither a dream nor a delusion. You are completely sane. You simply happened to look beyond the veil which divides the human world from another one, full of heinous creatures. Many live their lives through in full ignorance of it, but it does indeed exist". 

There was something to his voice making one listen. I recalled, again, the horrors of the night past, working hard to keep my emotions at bay. I once read stories about dark cults hailing to far barbaric lands, and it said those spread worldwide, even reaching the shores of Britain, with the leaders gaining new flock members from the circles of rich and high-born. Even presuming my husband and his friends had gone mad, there was something in that temple, besides the insane believers. There was this thing that rose from the depths of the sea, touched me and took Godfrey away. There was that, impossible to reason away. 

Professor Van Helsing drew our attention with a polite cough and went on. 

"When we realised what your husband had in mind, we started watching him. Apparently, we didn't do it extremely well. Mea culpa. You spotted us, so my friend and I decided to risk talking to you, at least to find out if you knew anything. We kept close, yet were barely in time to intercept the sacrifice rite. By my calculations, – he seemed to be embarrassed, – they wouldn't start with it until tomorrow. That was when we planned to infiltrate the castle. We had to change the course of action on the fly".

"I take it, he decided to rush it when I got interested in the sanctum. But how did you learn about his scheme?"

"I spotted he wore a ring of the cult's High Priest, – Jonathan said. – When we talked last time, I said I didn't know Godfrey Norton personally. Forgive me this deception. I did know him. Not all that close, of course, but I sat at some of the cases he conducted, was a member of the same club, too. It took me several days to realise why the symbols on his signet disgust me so". 

"What about the tattoos, then? These horrible sketches on their hands, Godfrey's, John's… they glowed!" 

"Part of the magic ritual, – Jonathan explained, – meant mostly for protection".

"…Which will do little against your regular rifle, – the Professor added quietly. – John Comyn was indeed your husband's university friend, and so were the rest of them. It was in these days, as students, when they got carried away with the black magic, much like many young men from noble families… The rite we stopped was designed with the goal of bestowing great powers and domination over the entire world on the performer – with your life as payment".

"I should have known, – I said bitterly. – My dreams were too good to come true. What will I do now?"

"Get away, – Professor said firmly. – The best thing for you would be disappear for a while, until it all dies down. Do you have means to support yourself?" 

"Of course, – I nodded. – And I know how to hide when necessary. It would not be the first time that I spar with vindictive men in power".

"This time it will be a harder thing to pull off, – Van Helsing said. – You have no idea how many dangers you are manoeuvring between, daily, hourly, barely sweeping your hem past them. The monsters do not exist as long as you do not see them. There are beasts strong in and of themselves, but most of them need your consciousness to open and let them in first. That's why most people happily live in willing and blissful ignorance, whereas any chance stepping out of it could shock, madden, but first and foremost open the gates for the great unknown – which did happen to Mr Harker and, now, to you. You allowed an additional risk into your life".

"But I am aware of it now", – I said. Professor nodded his approval and touched my shoulder lightly. 

"Still… if the police will go in search of me, because of the tragedy befallen my husband… Yes, and now there is a funeral to arrange, relatives to inform, his aunt in London, he also seemed to have someone close in France…"

"I am afraid, it's highly inadvisable, – Jonathan shook his head. There were seven demon worshippers here, seven of them detained, one dead. But who said these were all of them? In case there were more, they'd better never learn of you, Mrs Norton. I took some steps to prevent local police from looking for you. Fortunately, almost no one knew about your relationship with Godfrey Norton. At most, they thought you had a brief fling. Your wedding was conducted in secret. No one would think to connect your disappearance and his death".

"Indubitably, according to Christian duty we have to give the last honours to the dead. But considering the circumstances… – Professor Van Helsing looked at me meaningfully and I nodded my agreement. – You need the light of sun, not the rule of mist". 

Jonathan and Van Helsing escorted me to a railways station. As a goodbye, Professor gave me his card and said: "If you ever need help, just go to us".

Now you know, Aurel".


	22. The Portrait

Silence fell as Irene stopped talking. The woman was sitting in the armchair, hugging her own shoulders, as if trying to shield herself from cold, and all distresses of the past seemed to resurface in her eyes. Aurel was quiet as well, his chin resting on his palm, his boot's toe swaying absent-mindedly.

-Papa says it's a mauvais tone, to be envious of whatever, – he said finally. – Nevertheless, I am envious. Such a pity I was not there at the time!"

"Are you as well taken with demonic cults?" – Irene smiled, sincerely grateful to Count for his ingenuousness which seemed to send away the dark shadows of the past.

"I can't stand them! – Aurel imparted confidentially. – Should I be there, I would see to it that not a one of those ruffians would ever…" Scarlet bloodthirst flashed up in his eyes, but, catching the expression of his companion, the Count clearly got flustered and quickly finished: "…ever bother anybody again. Yes". He poured her more wine and went on: "What commotion you had gone through – so much shock, pain, suffering of soul… No wonder you saw right through me, concealing or not! – Irene looked in him in surprise, and he flung his arms up, clearly irritated with a slowness on the uptake, both her and his own. – You said my lack of reflection in the mirror caught your attention, but it was not the first time I took part in a reception, yet nobody noticed, except for you. That is because you knew by then that not everything appearing to be our imagination actually is all that unreal". 

"Professor Van Helsing said that too, – the woman agreed. – If they just tried to kill me, it alone probably wouldn't have such effect. But that creature… do you by any chance know what kind of a thing it could be? – the question came before Irene had time to think about it. – Was it just a beast or a real demon?"

Aurel shook his head.

"No idea, I am afraid. On this matter, papa would more of a help, – he smiled slightly, apologetically. – I know more than humans in many respects, just because of my powers, but… remember I called myself a provincial at Lady Ascot's ball? In our backwater – may papa and uncle forgive me addressing our homeland in such a way, but backwater it is – in our backwater, things like this simply never happen. Though some particularities of your story reminded me of another one, I must say… if, of course, you would like to hear it". 

Irene nodded vigorously. The wine and conversation put her in benevolent mood. 

"So then, – the Count started solemnly, – it happened, if memory serves, about fifty years ago. I was then… – he half-closed his eyes, counting, – ah, no use trying to remember, of course. Let's just say, I was an adolescent, – he hobbled, meeting Irene's eye and hastily added, – of course, in our terms. Some sort of priests suddenly landed in the village next to ours. The peasants cast them out in no time, it was harvest season, they had no time for chatterboxes babbling about supernatural punishments, salvation and the like, all the more, having lived side-by-side with us for decades, they had no choice than to somewhat broaden their views. Imagine that, these people, after all that, rolled up to our place, of all impudence!" 

"What did they want? Donations?" 

"Most likely, that, too, money, I take it, but they didn't have time to get to that. The moment papa heard that he, Count Augustus von Vittelburchartstaufen, was supposed to put his faith in some kind of great lord who would raise from the deep of the ocean to take over the world, he didn't believe his ears first. "Pardon me, – he asked, pretty politely, addressing the uninvited guests, – did you say will rise from the deep, have I heard correctly? Here, in Transylvanian mountains, he will rise?" Alas, none of the cult followers appreciated the magnificent sarcasm underlying his tone of voice. Served them right, then, when they were thrown down the stairs. Mind you, we have a true work of Gothic art of a stairs in our castle – steep, high and stony through and through".

Irene put the glass away and laughed heartily, but immediately caught herself and covered her mouth with a hand. Laugh in the prisoner's room, that late, that could get unduly noticed. 

"Since then, for about fifty years, there hasn't been a sign of any riser from the deep in Transylvania, – Aurel concluded, then suddenly turned serious. – I remembered this because those people also wore tattoos. I found it rather fascinating, even – much to the surprise of papa, as he got used to me keeping clear from this section of the library, – leafed through some occult-themed books. Didn't find anything of any worth, though, so lost interest quite quickly".

Irene did not respond, just smiled sadly and ran her hand along almost scarred over small wounds on her neck. Since recently, when deep in thought, she took to touching her neck – without even realising it – exactly where under the woollen cloth traces of "nosferatu's kiss" were hidden from strangers' eyes. 

"I saw tattoos of this kind on Dorian Gray's cuffs", – she said finally.

"Protection from me, that's what it is, – Aurel explained, sneering. – Alas, he boosted his defence not just with these savage trimmings. There are other means involved as well". 

"These signs have not any effect on you, then?"

"Not even a bit. Though strange coincidences do happen, I admit, – Aurel seemed to lose all his mirth at once. – I am that close to becoming a believer in destiny. I did not want to go to London, imagine this. Quite a lesson to me, it turns out. I should not have underestimated humans. In no time I made enemies, found friends and met you, my dear Miss Adler. Have you ever been told that you are an extraordinary woman? What am I thinking, though, of course you have…"

The clock on the mantelpiece chimed pleasantly. It was four a.m.

"So late! – Irene exclaimed. – Or rather, it is so early already!"

"Do you have to come back?"

Irene shook her head. "It's an hour before the housemaids will get up. No point going to bed now. I am wide awake anyway, whatever the reason. – She looked at the Count quizzically. – Admit it, it is one of your tricks, is it not?"

"No tricks!" – Aurel protested, clearly thoroughly pleased with himself.

"I have an entire free hour all to myself, then, – Irene concluded. –But why didn't you want to go to London? It is a great city".

Aurel waved his hand nonchalantly, glad that Irene stayed with him and was in the mood to talk further. 

"To tell you the truth, I got terribly bored with Transylvania. Don't get me wrong, I love my homeland with all my heart, I am taken with its magnificent woods, majestic mountains, songs of our people and castles of some our friends… But with the time, one longs for new things to experience. I read about the greatness of advanced European capital cities, was drawn to art, Rome, Florence, Paris… the latter in particular. But when I told papa that about my wish to go to Paris, he declared he won't hear of this city, and with such a fierce determination, I simply didn't have the guts to even ask him why. Finally he said he didn't mind me broadening my horizons, so agreed to a trip – but to London. All the more, uncle Vlad just came back from there. But my dreams were with Paris… We would never stop arguing, to no avail, until uncle interfered while visiting. He offered me a place in a military academy. In the end, squeezed between the options of Transylvania, military career and visit to London, I preferred the latter. Though, papa subjected it to yet another condition…"-

"Now what would this be?" – Irene pried. It was getting ever harder for her to suppress laughter. 

The Count cast his eyes down. 

"I can't tell you, – he said, embarrassed. – But I swear, there is nothing reprehensible about it! Please, Miss Adler, – he pleaded, – let us talk about something else".

"Very well, – Irene nodded. – I need your advice… need to ask you about something. I am in need of your special expertise again, that is". Aurel nodded enthusiastically."-Do you know… can a man tie himself with a… a thing?" 

"To what end?" – the vampire inquired businesslike. 

"I could but guess! – Irene sighed. – Perhaps, in order to transfer his… vulnerabilities into it?"

"Ah, that! Those are aplenty, – Aurel waved his hand, – it's a positively banal thing to do. Virtually never ends well though. When the object is destroyed, everything it kept away from the owner drops on said owner en masse. I had never had any involvement in this, – he noted apologetically, – but this is a well-spread type of sorcery". 

"Is it possible to neutralise the time's powers?"

The Count frowned and tilted his head. 

"You mean the eternal youth? For this goal, other means are more popular, but… why not?"

"Then I have a tragic story to tell you".

Having told Aurel about Basil Hallward the artist and his masterpiece of a portrait, Irene asked: "You noted some duality about Mr Gray. Can it be that very portrait at work?"

Aurel rose from his chair, his eyes half-closed, rocked a bit from heel to toe…

"Sadly, the spell that binds me to this house prevent me from perceiving anything about it".

"In Mr Gray's shoes, how would you conceal the portrait?"

"If I were him, I would take this canvas out of its fame, rolled it tightly and carry about me at all times. But I wouldn't let some meagre oil paints on a meagre piece of canvas rule my life to begin with!"

"You wouldn't, no doubt. But we should think like Dorian Gray now".

"Oh, that's not a problem! – Aurel snorted. – A person like him would not hide his likeness. Quite the contrary, he would hang it somewhere he could come to regularly, freely, to look at it and wallow in his power". 

"Come freely… well, of course, servants' quarters are out of the question, then, – Irene drawled thoughtfully. – So is the first floor – footmen criss-cross it all the time, not to mention the butler and the valet. Therefore, second floor also can be excluded".

"There is third floor, too, the attic, if memory serves, – Aurel supplied. – I am allowed to climb few steps up, but no further. It's the same story with climbing down. But let us come, at least, I can escort us to the stairs".

"It is not safe".

"No less than sitting here, waiting for whatever Gray has in store for me, – Aurel threw his head up. – Come on!"

There were several doors on the third floor, all looking alike, all firmly locked. Aurel nodded at the closest one, with an air of certainty. – "Here", – he breathed. 

Against his – and his companion – expectations, Gray's spell didn't interfere with him getting up the stairs. Irene frowned: "There must be something to it". "Trust me, – Aurel whispered, squeezing her elbow. – I feel that Gray is not in the house, and nor is his dog".

Irene found herself infinitely happy about Aurel's being here. It was scary as it was in the almost tangible darkness of the corridor. Candle burned, but didn't disperse the dark: on the opposite, just where the light ended the blackness around tightened, thickened, seemed blacker still. But the Count's supporting hand remained steady, as firm as marble. 

"What a poor excuse of sleuths we are, – the woman whispered in frustration. – Neither a stolen key at hand, not a picklock in sight, completely unprepared…" 

"Not to worry, I know how to pick a lock anyway".

"My goodness, how come?"

"When I was a boy, papa locked sweets away from me, in a buffet. You see, when it comes to health, teeth is a point of particular importance for any nosferatu. But wish for a candy still burned bright, from time to time". Irene shook her head incredulously, and Aurel nodded in agreement. "Just joking, of course. To tell you the truth, it's one of uncle Vlad's lessons. Nosferatu do not always get instantly killed when caught. In some cases they – we, that is, – get locked in some dungeon, or basement, or at the mill… all in all, a will to live is the best teacher of the skills to unseal any lock before dawn". 

While talking, Aurel was conjuring something up over the keyhole with a hairpin he borrowed from Irene. At times, he whispered something in his native tonque.

Several second passed. The lock screeched chockedly, snapped… and gave way.

"You're a genius!" – Irene squeezed the Count's fingers, and was rewarded with a strange look. Lamp's light reflected in his dark pupils, and they briefly burned scarlet again.

Aurel coughed. "Let us enter", – he said and stepped in first. 

There was the portrait. The painting drew an eye instantly – large, heavy, under a heavy cloth as well. Irene paused, afraid to meet the glance of Dorian Gray… the real Dorian Gray, should there be truth to what Jonathan Harker imparted to her. She looked around the room. A closet, full of tomes and schoolbooks of old, a table with a chair nearby, an imposing coffer – what a great hide-and-seek hideaway for any child… a classroom, that's what it was, an old one, most likely, keeping a stash of memories within itself. 

"Come, come", – Aurel pulled at the cloth impatiently. It fell, letting up a small cloud of dust. Irene took in the revealed image, gave a shriek, flailed a hand, candle dropped on the floor and Aurel hastily squashed it with his heel.

"E'urat, – he muttered, with a gulp. – Scarba. Sheer filth…"

"Cover it up, – Irene whispered, trying to catch her breath and take her focus from the hideously precise masterstrokes of the painting genius to his signature, in cinnabar, done with the same bold, confident, broad strokes: "Hallward". – Are you sure that he… it… this… not alive?"

Aurel jerked oddly and suddenly darted towards the door, painfully pushing the young woman aside, with such a force, she hit the portrait's frame with her shoulder. In the doorframe, a horrible face of the servant flickered briefly, his eyes flaming with malice. Nikolae uttered a throaty sound, something between a sob and a croak. Claws glinted dully in the twilight.

Nosferatu hissed as a stray cat at the sight of a rival. His instantly lengthened fangs got bared. But that very moment his face twisted with pain, he doubled up, clutched his head and fell to his knees, groaning as if his very soul was being prised out of him. Irene froze: Dorian Gray stepped out of the darkness, in an embroidered Persian-made robe and slippers. Following his master's nod, Nikolae stopped in his tracks, whereas Gray turned on the gas lamp switch, lighting the room.

He then looked at the Count, crouching on the floor and pulled up his upper lip, as if shown some sort of a sleazy sketch. Then he theatrically jerked up his sleeves, showing off the cuffs covered with tattoos.

"Is it enough, my friend? – he inquired insinuatingly. – I can't hear you. Is it enough?"

Aurel muttered something through gritted teeth.

"Stop it!" – Irene exclaimed, throwing caution to the wind.

Nikolae jumped towards her, clawed her shoulders with bony fingers and dragged her towards Gray. The latter rubbed his hands – while Aurel on the floor got quiet, apparently free for the moment from the hellish torture, – and carefully lifted her chin up with an index finger, looking closely at a familiar face.

"Amazing, Miss Adler, you never know, – Gray stretched his every word. – I have never doubted that you are not an ordinary woman, yet still, you are a woman. Nevertheless, today you managed to surprise me. Yes, Miss Adler, you should have been more careful when meeting your friend. You had to give more thought to arranging secrecy. Also, thinking through the retreat route would be a sensible thing to do. Then, perhaps, luring you into a trap would present more of a challenge".

"We are even. You managed to surprise me too", – Irene jerked her chin. Gray lowered his hand and stepped towards Aurel. He stuck his toe into his victim's stomach and murmured: "Stay that way for a time, my dear friend".

He went and stood opposite his portrait, threw his head back and admired the sight in front of him. A sign to Nikolae made the latter to pull Irene, fighting it tooth and nail, closer to him. 

"Don't you think there is a certain kind of beauty hidden in the perfect ugliness? – Gray's eyes were glued to the painting. – Isn't it why vices are so irresistible, their utter monstrosity? How fascinating it is, to gaze at this disgusting picture, so unlike the picture in the mirror". He touched his cheek with his fingertips, ran them along it up and down, relishing the smoothness of skin. In the gas light, his hair flashed gold and the face looked carved out of marble by an ancient craftsman, a sculpture of young Apollo, a gorgeous and cruel young god, come alive. Irene shuddered in disgust.

"Yet I see the clear resemblance here, – she said harshly. – Not much of a challenge, recognising you in this image. I still wonder, though, if this is your true look of today, with what means could you achieve such a feat? I used to know more than one man who led less than virtuous lives, but by the time they were forty, none of them turned into such an… archaeological curiosity". 

Gray's lips paled in rage, but Irene went on.

"Then again, I can make a guess or two. It could be hereditary, of course. There are people who from their birth stand sturdy against time, whereas others' beauty wilts as quickly as a rose once cut. May I assume, opium was among the pleasures you practiced for all these years, was it not? So, I take it, were ladies who are not mentioned in decent company, – Irene squinted at him. – I'd say, Mr Gray, with your wealth you could well afford to stay away from filthy diseases". 

"Yes, – Gray declared defiantly, – I can afford wallowing in my filth, basking in my vices, doing everything everyone else can but dream of, afraid of risking their comely facades. Sins… as long as they don't have power to leave their stamp on my face, sins become what they should be: pure thrills". 

"Such a pity you hadn't got stabbed in some dirty den", – Irene retorted calmly.

"Or that I didn't come across you before, – the Count added from the floor. – It would be my pleasure to break my promise and drink you dry".

"You shouldn't, Aurel, – Irene turned back to Gray, – I doubt his blood would be much to your taste".

Dorian drew closer to her, his marvellous youthful face contorted hideously. Clasping her chin again, he forced her to look at the portrait again.

"So, you know about the nosferatu, – he whispered into her ear. – I believe, you have guessed then, what attracted me to their kind? Have you?" Gray squeezed her face harder, with certain prospect of bruises ahead. "I do promise you, I will visit you later on".

"Leave her alone!" – Aurel rose with notable effort.

"Stand still! – Gray shrilled. – You are safe from me for now, but her…"

"If you touch but a hair on her head…" – Aurel began, but Gray's burst of laughter cut him short.

"Why, I wouldn't imagine nosferatu were capable of such emotionality! Now this is a subject worth of writing a play on: a predator carrying a torch for his victim. Or how do you call them: your meals? Dishes?" 

Aurel looked at him and chipped, each word filled with hate: "I am a sentient being! Unlike you, Gray, who is but a beast!" 

He made a move at Gray, but Nikolae, holding Irene's shoulder with one hand, clutched her neck with another, so hard, she screamed despite herself. The Count froze.

"There's nothing left for us here, – Gray declared socially, throwing the spread over the portrait. – You will return to your quarters this minute. Miss Adler, meanwhile…"

"Master, – Nikolae croaked, – give her to me…"

"Very well, but that is for later. Lock her. Downstairs, you know where." 

Gray was first to leave the room.


	23. Face-off

A medallion made of dully grey metal felt heavier in Abram Van Helsing's hand when he took it out of the safe to put on the table by the window. It was a crudely banged out discus, about half-palm size, with a chain of symbols running along its edge. Time was not kind to them: they all but faded completely. Intertwined lines in the centre looked dark. These could just as well be letters of some unfamiliar alphabet as ritual pictograms. The Professor passed a leather cord through a small hole at one side, though this thing hardly ever served as a trinket, however long ago. It wasn't even about hardly-alluring looks of the medallion: the very thought of this thing touching one's skin felt… unpleasant. The small signs resembled insects, poised to move and jump from the metal to your own body. Any attempt to guess at the meaning of central symbols by looking hard at them ended in dizziness. They say, many long-living things take on a character of their won. Well, this particular antiquity's one was clearly disagreeable and funereal, at that. 

Van Helsing weighed the medallion on his palm and put it away in his pocket. A brief thought passed his mind about it probably being worth a trouble to wrap it in several layers of clothes, but the Professor didn't go for it, having decided he wouldn't have to carry it about for too long, anyway.

A door quietly squealed behind his back, letting Jonathan in.

The lawyer nodded to the Professor wordlessly and laid a thick carton box down on the table. It was crowded with revolver rounds in their narrow nests, slightly glittering with white bullet heads. Van Helsing adjusted his glasses and took one round out of the box.

"This ammunition should be enough for the venture, – he said. – Though I'd rather save on them: silver is a valuable metal, and we still might need such bullets down the road. Have you tried them?"

"If you mean in the field, then no, alas, I haven't. It appears, there is only one beast in entire London, – Jonathan replied, pulling his own Smith-and-Wesson out of a pocket. – We shall have to rely on Mr Igor's expertise… Should Quincy be with us, he would be happy as a clam, I am willing to vouch". 

"And he would demand for the bullets to be modelled to his favourite brand, – Van Helsing sighed. – The largest in existence, that is, designed for total annihilation". 

Both fell silent, overwhelmed by memories as the Professor was loading his gun.

Quincy Morris, the American, head over heels in love with weapons, always patriotically went for true blue American models. Not that anybody objected to the hard fact of his compatriot ex-colonials' unrivalled superiority as far as the art of piercing thy neighbour with bullets was concerned. Jonathan's own revolver was acquired by Quincy's recommendation, though the lawyer politely declined his friend's first choice, of heavy, long-barrelled brand, capable of breaking several pine planks at once from twenty yards or doing away with a wild boar. As the American realised just how hopeless Jonathan was, he sadly pointed at a slender, pocket-size, colt and grumbled something about "firecrackers for the ladies". Should he be in London right now, he would plunge into the planned fray headfirst, ahead of everyone else. But he was not there. Nor did he come back home, ever. He laid down his life on Transylvanian ground…

"Did you find what you were looking for?" – the lawyer first broke the heavy silence. 

"Oh! Yes, I did", – van Helsing nodded and produced the medallion.

Jonathan leaned closer and barely suppressed a disgusted wince. "What an abomination! – he exclaimed, recoiling. – Where have you come by… this?" 

"I keep many various acquaintances, Jonathan, and I am not prepared to reveal each and every one of them to you yet. Does it remind you of Godfrey Norton's signet?" – the Professor grinned mirthlessly.

"I would think so, yes, – Jonathan got up and hunched slightly, looking over the medallion from the distance. – Feels rather similar".

"Your senses do not deceive you, – van Helsing nodded. – Once we're done here, I will get rid of this little curiosity and wash my hands off it with spirits and holy water for at least ten minutes afterwards. But we need something to counter a black magic which stands between the Count and his way out of the mansion".

That magic was what truly kept the Count confined. Entering the house without getting noticed was not enough. Eric did it. Irene did it as well. Neutralising the guards was not enough either (coming to think of it, there was practically no guard – the room doors remained unwatched, the nosferatu wandered the mansion in the Park Lane almost without interception). It was not grills or locks at the heart of his captivity.

As count Dracula put it about the spell: "The most genuine backstabbing! He turned one of our first rules inside out: we can't enter without invitation, but this Gray forbade the invited to leave without permission! What will this world come to, with such blatant impertinence to the rules?" 

"Far as I can tell, Gray used two different spells, – van Helsing went on. – One relates to the house, preventing the Count from leaving. Another forbids him to attack the homeowner and the residents". 

Alas, this was not helping solving the problem one bit. Neither Igor, nor Dracula himself appeared to have any means to break the spells locking Aurel inside. Well, the count did suggest, with a dark sneer, an almost universal, as he pointed out, way of doing things: that is, breaking Dorian Gray's neck instead. However, there was a hitch: namely, Gray's solemn promise of Aurel's immediate death in case his own life was threatened in any manner. 

"This scum may be bluffing, – Dracula pondered, pacing the reception, interjecting his reasoning with swear words from an array of tongues, – I would know it the moment I was in the house. Why the devil can't I enter?"

Patience was certainly not among the virtues of the famous vampire. But there was nothing else left – just to wait, all the while continuing to search for the right way.

Abraham Van Helsing facilitated all his multiple connections in the most various circles, consultants from Transylvania shared all they knew about this kind of magic, there was a lot of means spent and even more promises of personal favour given, not to mention some special deals, but it was just this last night that the Professor came back with the long-awaited trophy. Good job, too: it was in the nick of time. 

At first, the idea was for Van Helsing and Jonathan to infiltrate the mansion, get Aurel and lead him away to someplace safe, as quickly and inconspicuously as possible. 

"It's like committing a burglary in the pit of night, except for doing it in broad daylight with no harm done", – Professor enunciated ironically, referring to the whole enterprise. 

"It will hardly pass as a mitigating circumstance for the criminal court", – Jonathan retorted. Van Helsing slapped his shoulder comfortingly: "It will hardly come to the court, anyway. That is, we have to live to it first". 

After all, it was just yet another dangerous adventure. A walk in the park, virtually, compared to storming Dracula's castle. 

And now they had to change the entire plan, post-haste, to include a new and unpredictable player into the picture.

"How does this… thing work?" – Jonathan inquired in a detached voice. 

Van Helsing took the medallion from him and put it back into his pocket, wincing at the touch.

"Getting into the house with it will be enough. Count Dracula will demand assurances for his relative's safety before playing his card, and for a time, Gray will have to comply with his demands. – A dry click of revolver drum indicated the full set of load, after which the Professor weighed the weapon in his hand and hid it away in a pocket as well. – This will be our chance, Jonathan, likely the only one we'll have. Dracula made it abundantly clear: we are not viewed by him as allies. That is, he'll act on his own volition – which means, we will have to let him to be a decoy. 

Jonathan smiled despite himself.

"Are you ready?"

"Yes, – the lawyer got up. – This morning, Gray gave the whole personnel a leave. Eric reported, there was no one in the house but hunters…"

"I understand full well what bothers you, – Van Helsing looked young man into the eye intensely. – But we no longer have a choice. We have to go and do as we must".

"No, you don't understand! – Jonathan objected with sudden fervour. – I couldn't get into Gray's house last evening. I left a note for Miss Adler, requesting her to leave as soon as possible. You were not here, but fortunately, Eric dropped in and I asked him to take care of Miss Adler… According to him, she is still at Gray's. Why didn't he help her escape?"

"He must have had his reasons, – Van Helsing replied Van Helsing. – Or there were insurmountable circumstances at the moment. Do not let emotions get better of you, Jonathan. Not now. We will have to be of an absolutely clear mind and in full control of our senses. Otherwise no one of us will make it out alive".

In the hall, having buttoned up his coat already, the Professor suddenly showed off his cane to his friend in a solemn way. "I received it this morning, – he said proudly. – That's exactly what I needed to complete the outfit". 

"Were you worried about insulting Gray by an unfashionable robbery? – Jonathan took the cane and turned it over in his hands. – Aspen, I presume?"

"Quite right."

Fingers ran along the smooth, polished surface, touched the knob… Jonathan took it off in one confident move and, grinning knowingly, checked a sharpened point. 

"Do you think we will need this?" – he asked, returning the cane to its owner.

"My gut feeling tells me we'd better have this quaint thing about us, – Professor waved his hand and put the knob back in its place over the stake. – Let us go, my friend. We do not have much time".

Dorian Gray touched his neck scarf tie with his finger – and the reflection obediently followed his moves. 

He was both attracted and repelled by mirrors. They were convenient when there was a need to choose the perfect combination of shades or find the exact detail which would make society follow Dorian Gray's exquisite taste once again. But at times, at the peak of this complicated process, he stopped in mid-air, froze and moved his face close to the cold glassy surface, studying his face to detail, inch by inch, to the point when multi-coloured spots started to dance before his eyes, forming all sorts of grotesque pictures. Imagination broke free from reason, and Gray saw, clear as day, his delicate firm skin pale, yellow and go dry, wrinkles running across it, more and more, his bright eyes dull, eyelids shrivel, his marvellous golden hair turn grey. In one quick step, youth gave ground to senility. Then he recoiled from the mirror, clenching his fists behind his back, suppressing a burning desire to smash the damned piece of glass.

Once he yielded to it, about two years ago. The wretched vision multiplied as a result: a disgusting ruthless old man looked at Gray from each shard. He ordered the housemaid to tidy the room up and went to the studio, from where he took a paper knife and went further up, to the third floor, to his former classroom. He sat there for a whole hour, looking at the portrait, his thoughts astray and violently mixed. It was as if some hideously frightening stranger was whispering into his ear, going on about unbearable burden of existence, about the monstrous painting being the master of his enslaved soul… Gray still couldn't tell what stopped his hand, already poised for the final strike. But something did: he lowered it, went back down, ordered a new suit and, another hour later, was chatting sociably at the lunch held by the Duchess of Monmouth. Since then, he never felt anything like that again.

He will destroy the portrait first thing after his turning. 

The small hand of the clock was nearing ten. It was not a long wait now. This was the last day that he looked in the mirror with his human eyes, able to see his own image. But some said, his reflections will stay in the eyes of those whose lives he would take away, to go on living himself – forever. 

It was quarter to three. The assistants were putting finishing touches in preparation for the visit of Count Dracula. The whole house staff got a day off, which was announced straight away after breakfast, as well as strict forbiddance to come back before sunset. Some were happy about unexpected free time, some clearly annoyed, but in any event, in half an hour the premises was clear of those not in the know. 

Gray paused on the stairs, looking down on the marble floors, fully carpeted. The hired hands froze beside, no one of them was in the habit to speak first. These gloomy men had their own ends in mind to come to London. All the battle stations were taken, weapons at the ready, hunters all set for a signal to go.

Ten minutes more… His heart was racing, as if in premonition of having to stop for good soon. Or had it to? There were people who called the nosferatu living dead. Nikolae, however, growled angrily and shook his head. The damned spawn of darkness, that's how he called them, devilish creatures, hated by the sun of light. Not dead, though. Werewolves could full well tell the difference between the prey and the putrescence. The change meant the death just for the habitual familiar world, but also meant a re-birth in a new one. Another body, another mind… new powers, that's what it was.

Nikolae took position, about to plunge into the fight at one word from his master, nay, even a mere thought would be enough for the loyal dog, should said master be rendered unable to speak. 

Last minutes before the time were elapsing quietly. The clock hand finally stopped at twelve with a melodious chime. Gray grabbed the marble rails so hard, his knuckles turned white. The last strike, that was, then there should be knocking on the door. Count Dracula could not be late, it was his son's life at stake, after all. 

The chime echoed in the air, which suddenly felt thick and heavy. Gray inhaled, quickly, queasily, trying to hold on the air in his lungs as if when drowning. The count couldn't renege on his promise, he just couldn't! 

The bell rang ominously, thunderstorm-like. Gray shuddered and signed to one of the hunters to open the door.

"I am expected", – the thickly accented voice was well-familiar. 

Nikolae growled, softly and hoarsely. Gray too felt an urge to clear his throat, just to make sure he was still in possession of his own voice, but he just sighed heavily. 

"Come in, Count Dracula", – he said lordly and went down the stairs towards his guest.

The vampire froze for a moment, then stepped confidently over the threshold and entered the hall. There was still the same old-fashioned black cape on him that he wore at their first encounter, and, for whatever reason, he had round sunglasses on his nose. Could the daylight feel so unpleasantly sharp for ultra-sensitive nosferatu sight, Gray wondered, that their eyes required protection even on such a gloomy, bleak day when skies itself looked a lump of cotton wool, snow sifting through it sparsely yet relentlessly? 

Dracula removed his glasses to pocket it away. At this nonchalant gesture, all the hired hands tensed. Their weapons were trained on him from the minute the invitation was voiced, anyway. 

"Welcome to my house, your grace, – Dorian said. He didn't climb the last flight of stairs, for the vampire was substantially taller, and Gray could look him levelly into the eye only from where he stood at the moment. – Would you like a drink before the… due process?" 

"Why, have you stashed an attractive maiden for me somewhere? – the vampire jeered. – Truly, English hospitality is beyond reproach!"

"I meant whisky, – Gray replied coldly. – Your son mentioned you were not above indulging in such pleasures. But if it's a no, let us start the turning. I value my time highly, and I have an appointment to keep tonight. You have to finish the rite by then". 

"I want to see my son first", – Dracula said. 

"He is safe and sound".

"Now".

"Do you not trust me at all?"

"Not one bit". 

Dorian's lips moved. 

"Very well, – he said icily, nodding at some of the hunters. – Bring the Count".

The other wordlessly nodded back and strode quickly upstairs. 

Dracula stared after him, then turned his eye to the hitmen surrounding him. About half a dozen barrels were pointed at his face, as many were trained at his heart, poised to go off any second, pumping the sworn enemy with bullets. Several of the men had sharpened wooden stakes at the ready, three more were armed with heavy blades, of the kind which cuts a beef carcass in two at one hack. Down the road they would possibly fight over who has the first claim on the coveted trophy, but right now they comprised a tight monolithic unit, focused on sole main purpose: annihilated the cursed Transylvanian count, unarmed and sneering. 

Dracula moved to one side, followed by the aims, and carelessly leaned on a marble table. 

"I do hope you are aware of the fact that your bullets are harmless to me?" – he noted amicably and smiled the very same smile which rendered his past and future victims numb in the limbs. 

Having been locked in his room again, the enraged Count all but smashed the door, to the sheer entertainment of the guards. But the carved wood, the strength of which equalled its beauty, stood firmly against the nosferatu's fury, with nary a crack. 

Perhaps, it would be a better idea to try and break a hole in the wall, but by the time he thought about it, Aurel was exhausted. Drained of emotions, he fell into apathy. By the pre-dawn twilight, sending the dark of night away, he sat in his armchair, indifferently studying scratches on his hands, almost healed already. 

Everything Aurel had gone through since getting captured, all this turmoil of feelings and sensations, paled next to the pit of despair he fell in this time. The flame of hope that blazed up in him with Irene's appearance in the house, was dying fast, as, most likely, was Irene himself. And the worst of it was that it was him, himself, who send her right into the hands of a monster. Aurel's culpability in it could not be contested: he was reckless, running on instincts alone, not even stopping to think about what Gray might have had in mind removing third floor's defences. Now he knew what, clear as day. Such a crude, basic trap it was, a laughing stock even for a caveman. And here he was, Aurel von Vittelburschartstaufen, of high intelligence and sophisticatedly organised mind, as he was taken to believe. Indeed, his hubris cost him dear. 

Count tried to reach Irene several times. Gray – be that ignorance or neglect – did not prevent him from entering the minds of some dwellers of the house, that is, the ones meant as a meal for him, whereas Irene was still officially a housemaid. This way Aurel found out she wasn't dead yet, but that was it. Pondering on what was in store for them scared him so, he would rather stop thinking altogether. 

He rose from the armchair and came over to the window again, put his palm on a cold glass and put his brow against it. The street was buzzing, passersby hurrying about their daily affairs, carriages flickering by, boys running to and fro, newspaper vender shouting out the latest news. In other circumstances the vampire's hearing would catch every sound, but there and then his head seemed to have three layers of blanket put on it, intercepting anything and everything coming in from outside. A day before Gray said the waiting was over: naturally, he meant himself alone. Aurel didn't wait for anything any longer – nothing remotely good, in any event.

That's why the sensation to come over him the very next moment struck him like a thunderbolt, threw him back from the window and froze him stiff in the middle of the room. 

Just now, this very second, the master of the house invited in a vampire.

The time stopped.

Then a key turned in a keyhole, the door flung open. One of the Gray's hired fighters was on the doorstep, a hunter, of those who go after "the undead". The Count saw them about the mansion from time to time, though they steered cleared from his room. He couldn't even tell one from another, they looked like identical twins, all of them: equally gloomy, nondescript, sincerely hateful. The hunter's right hand rested on the handle of a cleaver and Aurel knew it wouldn't take it more than a moment to break free. The man at the door paused, the Count didn't make a move either.

"Come out, devil spawn, – the hired hand spat out at last. – Someone here wishes to see you".

Aurel obeyed. Should he not be bound, he could go for a fight, but the magic forbade him to assault the hunter, whereas the latter would think nothing of killing him instantly. The pale frosty eyes all but pleaded for a one wrong step from the Count, for any hint at attempt for provocation. Shooting a contemptuous glance at the man – there was no way to spin it as a cause for using a weapon – the Count went out to the corridor and headed towards the stairs. The hunter followed him.

As soon as he reached the first floor, Aurel felt the familiar smell. He dashed forwards, but instantly a heavy hand caught his shoulder, iron hooks of fingers dug hard into his shoulder and downed the vampire closer to the floor. 

"Do as you're told, – the hunter hissed. – It may yet buy you a spare couple of minutes. Off!" – he pushed Aurel into the back and they entered the hall together.

"Just as I promised, – Dorian Gray turned to them, – here is your son. I took good care of him. Now it's your turn to fulfil your promise".

Aurel stepped forward, totally unconcerned with the black barrels, now looking at him as well. 

“Urchi? – he said, amazed. – Uncle?"

"Cretinule! – Dracula roared in response. – Idiot!"

The Count didn't even notice. Wide-eyed, he chattered in Romanian: "Uncle, how come you are here? Why do you speak to this human? What is going on?"

Even if Dracula meant to answer, Dorian Gray had other ideas.

"Urchi? – he repeated, as if tasting the foreign word with his tongue. – What is this? Stop talking to each other! Or speak English!" 

"What concern is this to you, Gray? – the vampire replied. – You missed the mark a little bit, Aurel is my nephew, not my son, but I am willing to fulfil my part of the deal". He bared his fangs, show-off way, curling his upper lip a little bit. "But first, I want to see my nephew leave this building". 

"Oh no, – Dorian smiled sweetly. – I am not stupid enough to put my neck under your fangs without a safety net. You will turn me while my men will keep their weapons aimed at the Count, and, I warn you, he'll die at the first movement away from straight and narrow you might make. Then, I…"

He didn't have time to complete the sentence. Moving so swiftly, a human eye would give up trying catching up with him before starting, Dracula leapt, landing near Aurel in a fraction of a second. A wave of a hand – looking so easy and light – threw the dead body of the hunter who stood closest to count's nephew metres away from him. The next blow cut short the life of another one. Dracula grabbed the Count by the collar and hissed into his face in Romanian: "Get out of here, you numbskull!" 

"What? I can't!" – the Count started to object, but the older vampire pushed him away unceremoniously.

Almost instantly, all at once, weapons thundered from all sides, emitting flocks of the bullets of all gages possible. Shots tore apart the count's clothes and flesh, even though they couldn't kill him. The hunters, however, did not expect it either: they shot not to kill but to intercept. 

Aurel rushed away. He still couldn't leave the house, but there was plenty hideouts and boltholes. He bitterly regretted only one thing: that he could not stand and fight next to his uncle.

His fingers already were turning the doorknob as a huge hairy bulk of a body threw him off his feet. Powerful paws pressed him against the floor, the sharpest of sharp fangs touched his throat and pierced it, letting out trickles of blood. Yellow wolfish eyes looked Aurel into the face, and there was a mocking laughter to a hollow growl. 

"It's enough, Nikolae!" – Dorian Gray commanded imperiously and put his hand on the werewolf's scruff. Unwillingly, Nikolae unclenched his jaws and moved his snout away a fraction, still holding his prey tight. Gray hovered over Aurel and said softly: "Look over there". 

The nosferatu dutifully turned his head to the left and stopped short of screaming in horror at the sight of count Dracula's body, sinking slowly to the floor. The shelling didn't leave an unhurt spot on the vampire, his clothes were in shreds. The hunters were reloading their weapons for the next salvo. 

"He's all yours! – Gray shouted. – And you, Aurel, are coming with me. Your… uncle's refusal doesn't mean a change of plan. You will turn me".

"I will rip your throat off!" – the Count cried, losing his breath, trying to reach the hated wretch with his claws. Sharp, torturous pain instantly shot through him, top to toe. 

Dorian shook his head. "The spell protecting me and my servants from you is still active. And you are forgetting something else, Count – or, rather, someone. But I will name this someone – hopefully, it will refresh your memory". He bent over to Aurel's ear and whispered, almost tenderly: "Irene Adler!"

The young man stopped dead. Gray straightened up and stepped away, adjusting crumpled neck scarf with an elegant movement of hand. Nikolae, changing his shape back to human, snatched the Count with both hands and in one jerk pulled him up to his feet. Gray moved away first, the shapeshifter hurried after him. Striding as clumsily as a marionette operated by a rather unskilled puppeteer, Count looked back one more time, only to see hunters close on Dracula's prone body. A heavy blade shone, a wooden stake rose to render the final blow… "Uncle…" – Aurel moved his lips soundlessly, but the werewolf heard him, growled and pushed in the back so hard, the young man's legs gave in. Then Nikolae grabbed his victim and dragged it off. 

The slaughter in the hall was left behind. Thus, Aurel did not see the cleaver come down without reaching its target, nor the hunter that held it be thrown off with his hand twisted off his shoulder. The man was still alive hitting the floor, but, considering the blood-stained grin of count Dracula who had just risen to his feet, it wasn't for long.

Jonathan Harker and Abraham Van Helsing, friends and companions, all business and purposeful, went up the porch at the backdoor. The Transylvanian count just entered the house, which meant every minute counted since this very moment. There was most certainly someone behind the door – breathing, walking on the screeching floorboards. Then there was some sort of bustling, muffed thump, protracted ten seconds of silence, rustling. Then the door opened.

It was dark in the little small corridor and it took some Jonathan some while to realise that something limp he just stepped on was actually a human hand. 

"A guard, – Eric clarified levelly. – It is not a good day to be one". 

He was in his perennial black coat, masked, as Mrs Turner's tenants were used to see him by then. 

"Where is Miss Adler?" – Jonathan asked, navigating between the corpses. The mansion itself seemed lifeless, bereft of any personnel inside. There was not a sound from the landlord's quarters. It appeared, the count had learned some manners since the last time he visited here and did at least some talking for a start. 

"She's downstairs. It's the safest place to be right now", – Eric was curt.

"What happened?" – the Professor adjusted his grip on the cane. – Why didn't she leave with the rest of the servants?"

"She got pinched. Gray ordered her locked in".

"What? Is she harmed? – Jonathan felt an ever more intensely burning desire to commit some sort of an offence against Mr Gray, something along the lines of a premeditated murder. And, God be his witness, for this, no jury would convict. – How did it all unfold?" 

"I found the demoiselle in the morning, under the lock in the storeroom. On top of the lock, there is a bolt there, and I didn't have time to pick it, nor did I manage to unhinge the door at once. I chose to leave it all be – a couple more hours will hardly matter now. Moreover, our cook keeps all her supplies there. The severities of such a prison, I could do with…"

"Shame on you, Eric, – Jonathan cut him short. – It is not the time to babble about meals!"

"Eric has never put much stock in the food, unless it's a spiritual one", – the former Phantom of the Opera intoned in preaching manner. 

"Gentlemen! – Van Helsing intervened sternly. – We don't have much time".

Jonathan inwardly swore at himself. The Professor was absolutely right. For all the time that Eric and he knew each other, the lawyer still hadn't learned to let the Phantom's acid remarks pass. There was no way around admitting that in the war of words Jonathan couldn't keep ahead of the Frenchman – hardly something to be proud of, especially for a solicitor whose success and living often rested directly on how well he sparred verbally. Not that he had had a chance to spar this way with Eric in an actual court case. Now this might be a sight to behold… 

The three moved further into the house. 

"You said, Miss Adler got pinched?" – the Professor verified, throwing off his coat to a Chippendale-made chair. He took in the surroundings as if checking them against the map drawn by Eric. His expression was a mix of scientific curiosity and focus of a warlord preparing for the final battle, all rolled in one. He fished the disgusting medallion out of his pocket and, looking around quickly, put it on the floor in a corner. He stood still for a while, then, as if straining his senses, trying to catch something in the ether. However, even if there was indeed some change, human perception was not nearly enough delicate to catch it. Van Helsing sighed and decided to himself that all they had left from then on was to put their faith in this hideous thing behaving the way it was supposed to. 

And that was when they heard weapons go off, shouts and bang of a door slamming somewhere. 

"So it started then", – the Professor observed in a hollow voice. Jonathan took his heed and took his coat off as well.

"The lady found the portrait, – Eric reported and went deep into his pocket. An impressive set of keys was produced. – She and the Count did, that is". – Eric pronounced the title with a face of someone who had just eaten a full piece of lemon without sugar. "Gray's servant took her away. As for the Count, – one more section of virtual lemon reflected in his eyes, – he was sent to his room". 

The shoot-off went on. Eric took several keys off the set. 

"I have not checked these ones, but one of them must be from the room where the portrait is being kept". 

"I'll take them, – Van Helsing stretched out his hand. – Eric, you will tell me where to go at once, – he ordered. – Then go and show Mr Harker where Miss Adler is now. We have to get her out of here post-haste. And help us God".

In seconds, the crew parted ways. The professor hurried up the backstairs to the third floor, whereas Jonathan followed Eric downstairs. He came close to lose the sight of him for a moment – the Frenchman flew, rather than ran, ahead, like a big black bird, his coattails sweeping against the walls.

Together, they went down to the basement, left behind the spacious kitchen… The storeroom door was wide open. There was no one inside.

It didn't take long to cover the remaining distance, hardly more than a minute. Gray ran down the stairs, turned the key and entered the large dark premises first. Nikolae pushed the Count in next. Aurel had never been to this part of the house. Even the ubiquitous servants were forbidden to step over this threshold, and the homeowner allowed his comrades in hobbies and entertainment into this remote hideaway, far from prying eyes, extremely rarely. 

"Bring in Miss Adler, -Dorian commanded, and the werewolf disappeared behind the door at once. – You must have felt her presence by now, – this was meant for Aurel. – Nikolae did not mention it as he thought her a mere housemaid, but I was mighty surprised to find the bite mark on our guest's neck. So the attraction your feel for her does not stop you from satisfying your natural needs? Or is it just in recognition of inequality between the humans and nosferatu, you being a superior kind…"

"Shut up, Mr Gray, – Aurel replied tiredly. – You understand but nothing at all".

"Then be my teacher! – Gray sank into the armchair and graced his captive with a smile. – Trust me, I do feel badly about having to subject you to all these ordeals. Accept my condolences about your relative, too. I did so hope that we would become friends!" 

"Stop lying, – Aurel's voice still sounded tired. – You never meant to leave either of us alive". 

Gray shrugged lackadaisically. 

The shapeshifter came in, dragging Irene Adler into the room in one sharp move. Upon seeing her, the Count trembled and whispered, barely moving his lips: "Forgive me". Irene did not say a word in reply, just almost imperceptibly nodded her head. She loot pale and exhausted (in a closet she was locked in, the young woman narrowly niched herself on the edge of some box, just barely appearing from under the pyramid of others). She was only kept going by the strength of her will, and that was running out, fast.

"Now, Aurel, you will do what is needed for my turning. If you do it right, Miss Adler will live on. If you do genuinely care for her, try harder. Otherwise... – Dorian gestured nonchalantly and Nikolae's squeeze on Irene's hand hardened. – My servant is utterly loyal to me, but I occasionally let him go his own way about carrying my orders out. Thus, in this case I will just tell him to kill her, leaving the manner of doing it for him to choose. Want to try the richness of his imagination?" 

"Very well, – Aurel intoned dully. – I'll do what you say".

Dorian Gray replied with a smile. "Nikolae, – he said without looking at his lackey. – I lift my restriction on you and command you to watch the turning. At the slightest sign of threat or error, kill her, then do the same to this strigoy".

"Yes, master", – the werewolf growled, bowing his head. The hair on the back of it was already transforming into the fur of a wolf. 

Calmly and leisurely, Dorian got up from the armchair and started to untie his neck scarf. He then unbuttoned his collar, revealing the sculpted outline of his neck and collarbone. 

"Go ahead", – he commanded.

Aurel came over to him and put his hand on Gray's shoulder in an almost friendly way. 

"If you suddenly change your mind, – he whispered into this ear, – there is no way of stopping the process or cancelling it out". And, without leaving the other any time to reply, he pierced Dorian's neck with instantly-lengthened fangs.

Irene closed her eyes.

She kept them closed for several minutes, regretting bitterly her inability to do the same with her ears. Gray cried out in pain and surprise, but his scream was immediately drowned out by Aurel's chanting something in a tongue Irene was not familiar with. Yet the sound of these words made her hair stand up on end. Then silence fell, broken just by an irregular breath and suppressed growl of a beast. Her own heart took the count of time, second by second, every beat feeling more painful, every second longer than the previous one. 

Unable to go on like this, the woman opened her eyes. She thought she was ready for everything.

Dorian Gray and Aurel stood face to face in the middle of the room, blood on their lips and clothes. The Count's eyes burned, but she couldn't see Gray well from where she was.

Suddenly, Gray threw his hand ahead of him, pushing Aurel aside with such a force, the Count was sent several metres away and barely managed to stay upright.

"It's amazing! – Gray threw his head back. – What colours. What relish. What sounds! To sense it all! I have never felt anything like this! The power, it's overwhelming… – He turned towards Irene and grinned, revealing long white sharp fangs under the blood-stained lips. – The humans will never comprehend it, not ever". 

He looked over his hands, felt down his own body, as if trying it on for the first time ever. Born graceful and agile, Dorian Gray now viewed himself of the past as clumsy and awkward.

"Humans… so utterly weak and pathetic they are".

There was nothing blue left in his shining eyes, filled to the brim with excited madness. 

"You haven't come up with anything new yet", – Aurel responded with contempt. There was a flicker in the scarlet eyes, but it faded quickly. Gray turned to the werewolf.

"Do away with the strigoy, – he said coldly. – Then do as you please with the lady". 

He paused briefly at the exit, looking over himself again, paying particular attention to his clothes. Pulling down the still-unbuttoned collar, he studied the scarlet runbacks. "The shirt is hopelessly ruined, – he muttered. – What a pity". 

The door slammed shut behind him.

Nikolae pushed Irene aside and leapt into the air, turning into a humongous beast on the fly – yet the monstrous fangs, about to tear the helpless prisoner apart, snapped in vain. In a fraction of a second Aurel dodged the lunge and flew to a side in a low long jump. The animal hit the stone wall with his shoulder, howled out in pain, rolled over in an instant and plunged at the hated vampire once again. A huge body of the wolf careened past Irene and the woman had slunk into herself. 

The Count grabbed the armchair where Gray just recently had his rest and threw it at the enemy's snout, but whatever dark force created the shapeshifters didn't seem to forget about making their bones harder than stone: the blow but stunned the beast for mere seconds. It wasn't so brief a time under the circumstances, though: in a fight between two supernatural creatures every second could easily be crucial for someone's triumph and someone's fall. It just not for that cursed magic that restrained the nosferatu… Wait. Restraining? But… there were no restraints! He was free! Gray destroyed his own spell by changing his nature, for he now was a vampire himself!

"Irene, run!" – Aurel shouted, wasting no more time before throwing himself at Nikolae.

He managed to strike first, and nosferatu's claws slashed the soft bit skin under the werewolf's chin. The beast threw his head, evading the next hit, turned around and lunged back at the Count, headfirst.

They rolled on the floor, hit the coaches' legs. Once the vampire managed to tear the shapeshifter away, but, almost in the same moment as he hit the wall with a dull thump, the beast went back into the fray, trampling down the Count, already weakened by the rite of turning.

* * *

"Irene, run!" – Jonathan heard and almost at the same time a woman in a dark dress landed straight into his arms. "Let me go! No!" – she struggled violently, beating his shoulders with her fists.

"Miss Adler, it's me! Harker!" – Jonathan caught her chin with his fingers, making her look him into the eye. It took her two seconds and two battings of eyelashes to regain control of herself.

"It is all right", – Jonathan said, tidying up a lock that fell down her eyebrow. 

"You came. And once again, you weren't late", – Irene smiled slightly and stepped back, forcing him to weaken his grip, but the very next minute grabbed his shoulders again. "The Count… he needs help before this monster kills him dead".

They heard a crash and beastly roar behind the heavy, half-open door at the end of the corridor, from where Irene ran out seconds earlier. Jonathan gestured at Eric; the latter, without uttering a word, bolted off towards the door. The young man squeezed Irene's fingers briefly to lift her spirits even a little, and dashed after the Frenchman, arming the trigger on the run. 

Aurel got ever weaker, blow after blow landed on him unchallenged. He still was trying to resist, gathering his strength – he extricated himself from the shapeshifter's grip, wriggled, sent the adversary away and stopped still, on his knees, trying to catch his breath, resting on his right hand. The left one, covered with blood, was unnaturally twisted. The werewolf, breathing coarsely, rose and rolled over. He hit the Count with the back of his hand across the face, searing the skin off his cheek. Aurel slumped on the floor. 

That was the hour of triumph. At last, Nikolae would finish off the mangy whelp, repaying him for all the indignities the nosferatus threw his family into. 

Eric was first to the battlefield. A coattail flew up, making the shapeshifter jerk, taking in the movement with the corner of his eye, leaving the Count some more time to live. Nikolae was much taller and bigger than Eric, but this second of hobble was enough for the former Phantom of the Opera. A noose, thin yet marvellously strong, whipped at the werewolf's neck. He recoiled, wheezed, grabbed at the lace on his throat, trying to break free. Eric, with adroitness that almost matched the nosferatu's, slithered behind the thrashing about monster, constricting the slip noose ever tighter. 

Nikolae stopped trying to tear the lace, lunged forward and turned sharply, getting ahead of Eric. An awful grimace contorted his snout. He raised his paw but caught nothing but thin air. Eric managed to elude the blow once again, with only his coattail left in shreds. 

The noose still dangled around the shapeshifter's neck, tangled with his ruffled hair, and the string keeping the Phantom's mask on gave way in the fight. The mask flew away from the Frenchman's face, and Jonathan flinched despite himself, so horrible was the sight revealed: a werewolf, anything human in him long discarded, and utterly faceless Eric in front of him. 

Eric dodged, leapt and landed on the shapeshifter's back, locking him in an iron grip, pulling the beast back from its victim. So great was the strength of the Phantom of the Opera, he managed to keep the monster, bursting from his hands, for an entire couple of seconds before said monster broke free and in one horrendous push sent the enemy away after his mask.

Freezing in his tracks for a fleeting moment, the werewolf appeared to weigh who to destroy first: the hated strigoy or the pathetic interfering miserable human… Next second, shots were fired. One, two… The shapeshifter let out a shriek, much like a mortally wounded prey's, once the hunters pierced it with pullets. His eyes rolling, his mouth gaping, foam dripping from it, he rose to his full height. On the scruff of his neck, his hair stood on end. Smoke rose from the holes the bullets made in his chest.

Eric jumped closer, agilely evading the mighty paws, barely didn't trip over the Count's leg, grabbed his lifeless body and dragged away.

Jonathan shot once more.

The werewolf roared in a last desperate attempt at one more leap and crashed down to the lawyer's feet in a limp, shapeless heap.

* * *

Van Helsing froze in his tracks. Whoever painted this portrait was indubitably a genius. The strokes were put on the canvas by a completely confident hand, as if the higher power guided it. Magnificently outlined wine-coloured drapery, the finesse of every detail, the utter precision of lines, airy lightness around Gray's figure, it was all there speaking volumes about the artist's craft. Basil Hallward found his style and way of painting all by himself, on pure gut feeling, having acquired the best of all words from everyone who came before him, from Van Helsing's much-beloved the Flemish, to the greatest maestros of the Renaissance. He fortunately escaped the impressionists' influence, too. As a result, he created what every artist strived for – or should do – namely, a true masterpiece. 

When a painting is done well, they say about the artist: "he put his all soul into it". Well, Hallward certainly did, if not the entirety of his soul, then a good part of it, without a doubt. And what a soul it was, if its scale and openness was still readable from Dorian Gray's portrait, despite what became of it. 

Inspecting the features of the face on the canvas, convulsed in sheer malice, the Professor caught himself thinking something highly inappropriate for his age, social status and refined intelligence. He felt a kind of surreal satisfaction at the fact that Dorian Gray – now hardly more than 40 – looked older than Abraham Van Helsing himself on this picture. 

"If indeed this reflects his sins, if this repulsive old man is truly Gray the way he was meant to become, to turn himself into since he was immortalised in this painting, – Van Helsing muttered, getting a flat flagon from his pocket unscrewing the stopper, – then, Goodness gracious, I don't even want to know what and how many sins these were, what crimes he had to commit to transform into this…"

The man on the portrait was as repulsive as Dorian Gray was attractive. There was no way to tell the natural hair colour of this ghoulish fossil of a man, it was too grey and thin. All hues of the past drained away from his cheeks long ago, replaced by unhealthily-looking spots. Pigmented hands, arthritic fingers, watered conjunctivitis-stricken eyes, sunken lips – most likely, not full set of teeth behind them, either – and, to top it all, there were also signs of sick liver and septic infection. All the signs of soft spot towards opiates and other "delights", elicit and illicit alike, here on hand… or, rather, on hands, and on the face, too.

How could anyone profane this God's temple, this crowning glory of creation, a human body, so heinously? Van Helsing threw contents of a flagon of a superb cognac over the canvas and struck a match.

It seemed… No! It wasn't his imagination, it was for real! The face on the portrait did move, its lips trembled, eyes opening wide – and flaring up scarlet. 

It couldn't happen under the laws of material world Professor had an unshakeable faith in, but it did happen! The portrait was coming alive, feeling an impending death closing on it.

Van Helsing's hand quaked. A match hit the floor and crackled out. He hastily got another one from the box and froze in his tracks, looking intensely at the portrait. 

In awe and horror at once, the Professor watched the portrait change, as if some invisible hand was wiping the old age away from this face, painting it anew, young and fresh. The eyes were turning sky-blue again, framed by long, almost girlish, lashes. The hair lengthened and went golden…

This could mean but one thing.

They were too late. He, Abraham Van Helsing, was too late!

Van Helsing sent the burning match at the picture, which ignited straight away. Struck by flames, the portrait went on changing even more intensely, soon transforming into the very masterpiece Hallward created 20 years ago: an innocent pure face of a handsome youth, unburdened with hard work, heavy thoughts and exhausting worries. As fresh as a flower in a button of a dandy, smiling as lightly as butterfly would flicker past, Dorian Gray glanced at the Professor fleetingly, and that was the last thing the portrait saw before the model lost his lattermost shred of humanity.

Irene warily stepped in and clasped her hand over her mouth at the blood-painted sight of destruction in front of her. Her eyes found the Count and she rushed towards him, hurtling something small and nigh-weightless with her dress on the way. It was but a mask, along the lines they made in Venice for the carnivals, crafted out of white fine leather.

Jonathan picked it up and offered to Eric, who slumped by the wall, covering his face with his palm.

"It appears to belong to you".

"Do you have any string?" – Eric asked. Jonathan shook his head.

"Let us try to fit it on, – he said. – And stop shilly-shallying like a young maiden. After all we've seen here, do you think I'm still concerned with how you look?" 

Eric looked at Jonathan strangely with his yellow eyes and looked away while the lawyer adjusted a lace back on.

Having finished with it and returned the mask to its owner, Jonathan look back at the Count.

Aurel, supported by Irene, tried to get up, but to no avail. Jonathan stretched out his hand.

"Are you in one piece?"

"Mostly", – the Count forced out with considerable effort through his beat-up lips. Grabbing the lawyer's hands, he managed finally to rise, teetered and would fall back again, but for Jonathan's shoulder. Even a cursory glance gave a good picture of horrible result of the fight: the prisoner's clothes were but blood-stained rags, blood, fresh and dry, also covered his face and body, what was seen through the holes, twisted hand hanged lifelessly along the body. Yet Aurel was alive, and that was all that mattered. From then on, amazing faculties of vampire's organism would do the healing job.

A tentative touch on the twisted shoulder caused but a painful hiss through gritted teeth, but a scream from the sharp pain which came next could not be suppressed by Aurel any longer.

"Done, – the lawyer said, still supporting the Count. – I've put your bone back into joint again. The vampire's feet kept trying to give way, he all but hanged heavily on Jonathan, who quickly whispered in his ear: "Do you require blood now?"

Aurel jerked and looked at his saviour in sheer amazement. Jonathan knew the answer at first look in his eye. 

"Eric, help Mr Adler, now, – he ordered. – Take her away. We won't be far behind".

The Frenchman was about to reply, but looked at Jonathan's expression and nodded quietly, evidently against his own expectations. 

"Let us go, mademoiselle", – he muttered in French and politely yet uncompromisingly guided Irene, who weakly tried to resist, towards the exit. 

"Thank you Mr Harker", – Aurel said a minute later, getting seated on what was left from once luxurious armchair after it experienced the wrath of two non-human beings. Jonathan fished a handkerchief out of his pocket and tried to bandage his cuff. It was a rather clumsy attempt, but he managed to tie a knot with his teeth. He unrolled the sleeve, put on the jacket, got out his empty pistol and started reloading it.

"Can you walk now?"– he asked the Count having finished with the weapon and pocketed it again.

Aurel's wounds were healing fast, scarring, skinning before Jonathan's eyes, and in seconds there was not a trace of any blemish on the smooth clean skin. Seeing the vampire get up, Jonathan noted to himself that his client had all his habitual lightness and agility of movement back.

"I can see you are better, – he said, upon not hearing any reply to his question. – I am glad of it. And now, shall we leave this inhospitable place?"

"No, – Aurel shook his head. – I can't. Uncle Vlad is here, fighting for me".

"I have no doubt he will manage without our assistance, – Jonathan said – We're leaving".

"I can't! – the Count repeated impassionedly. – There is also Gray…"

The lawyer sighed and put on the expression of readiness to hear it all out. 

"He wanted to be turned, by uncle Vlad, but uncle refused him. Then… then he forced me…"

Jonathan slowly closed his eyes and exhaled.

"You have turned him, have you not?" – it was more of a statement than a question.

"He threatened to torture and kill Miss Adler, – the nosferatu said. – I had no choice! I did turn Dorian Gray, so he is now a vampire, as much as I am. But I want to put it right! I will tear this scum piece by piece!" 

Jonathan gritted his teeth. Their plan was no longer crumbling – it was going down in flames.

"Will you be able to, though? – a familiar thickly accented voice came from behind. – I heard something about some sort of mental connection borne out by the turning, causing the vampire and his victims to feel almost like soulmates…"

Jonathan turned around and was not one bit surprised to find the lanky silhouette of the former Phantom of the Opera at the door. But Irene Adler was standing next to the Frenchman, and the last fragment of the initial plan had sunk swiftly down the drain. With a swish.

"Were you not told to leave?" – Jonathan said tiredly.

"Thus losing a chance to watch a Transylvanian nosferatu in full fighting mode? – Eric laughed. – Out of the question".

"From you, only to be expected, – the lawyer replied curtly, – but Miss Adler?" 

Irene just shrugged. Jonathan threw his hand up in resignation and turned to the Count: "Can you locate your relative?"

Aurel squinted, concentrating. "He is there in the hall, still fighting". 

"Turns out, the local hired hands are sturdy and experienced pieces of work indeed, – Eric commented. – I would think, there would be nothing left of them by now".

"What about Gray?" – Jonathan let the Frenchman's remark pass.

"He is heading there, too! He is after my uncle, I sense his hatred and hunger for revenge".

No wonder. Count Dracula was well-consistent: his manners never failed to stir a burning desire to kill him in virtually anyone making his acquaintance. 

Jonathan clicked with the cylinder, checking the ammunition one more time: yes, all the six chambers were full again. Now, coming to thing of it, what good these silver bullets do… Unlike the werewolves, vampires were not susceptible to those. Humans, yes, for them it would work. 

"Let us go", – the lawyer said.

"That's going to be a sight to behold", – Eric rubbed his hands with a pleased look and Jonathan graced his assistant with a withering look.

"Miss Adler, – he said, – please, leave this place. You can use the backdoor. Go back home".

"No, Mr Harker, – Irene shook her head resolutely. – What if some of the guards are back? I feel safer here with you".

"Dear God… Well then, keep close. Count, lead on".

* * *

Dorian Gray moved leisurely down his mansion's corridor. He could now cross it in one movement, with the speed of a thought – but was not in the mood for it at the moment. He was preoccupied with new sensations boiling up his blood – strength, might, power, beyond even the emperors' reach. His sight discerned new colours he didn't even fathom existing before, and his hearing became so precise, Gray now easily caught the beating of hearts downstairs on the first floor where he was heading. It was not so much of a beating any more, but an intense hammering, resembling of an avalanche of thundering rocks. There were people fighting a vampire down there – an old, powerful, seasoned one. 

When Gray hired these hardened, scary people, whose all life was comprised by hunting monsters, to guard him, he relied on their strength, skills and experiences. Now he could see for himself that he was right: some of them were still standing and even resisting.

It was strange to think now how little time had passed since count Dracula arrived to Dorian Gray's house – hardly more than a quarter of an hour – considering what an array of incredible events fit in these brief minutes. Gray paused at the entrance in the hall, observing the battlefield with disgust and admiration at once. Half of his cadre of hitmen were dead. None of those still fighting were unscathed, and still the hunters couldn't make count Dracula edge away even a fraction, let alone squeezing him into a daylight-filled spot, the only place effectively dangerous for him. Truth be told, though, the count, too, could but keep them at bay, without making any advance himself. 

The nosferatu are strong and powerful, but not all-powerful nevertheless. Not only can they be killed, but there are also ways of delaying them, or even weakening, to the point of exhaustion. Heavy bullets flying off at mighty speed from the barrels, left wounds. Dracula healed them all right, but it took time and effort. The holy water left painful burns, whereas the sacred symbols erected mental obstacles. The vampire overcame them all – and lost more and more of his strengths, almost imperceptibly at first, but it accumulated by a minute. 

Gray was wrapped up in his own feelings: his hatred of Dracula, more intense than even the thirst that consumed him – so strong was his anger at the count's mockery, his acid contempt, his very might… Did he, Gray, indeed, ever, believe they could be friends, entertaining themselves together under the pale moonlight? What nonsense! That was inconceivable. Ah, young Count, for the first time since you arrived to London you displayed some kind of inside, once you realised that Dorian Gray reborn had no intention to share his power, not with anyone from your bloodline. By the way, sweet Count, how are you now? The loyal Nikolae must have already ripped out your throat. 

Gray's lips twisted slightly in a smile at the thought of the werewolf. He did question the steadfastness of his loyalty, once having decided on getting turned. Would the servant stay as committed to the immortal and invincible Gray as before? After all, his hatred to strigoys as a kind was burning. There was but one way to find out, and this way was virtually titillating to the nerves. Gray felt strong enough to tear the shapeshifter piece by piece, should he dare to disobey him – but it proved unnecessary to test his certainty with practice. Nikolae was still loyal. Therefore, Gray would let him to indulge his beastly needs – after all, he had also taken a good care of his pets…

And few weeks later, a new master will rule over London.

Having treated himself with several more seconds of luscious swirls of daydreaming, Dorian Gray leapt across the blood-covered floor of the hall without so much as touching the dead bodies and still breathing, if badly crippled, Dracula's opponents, and struck the accursed Transylvanian in the back.

The incredible speed of the nosferatu's movement blurred the sight of the hired hands, but their long experience came in handy. A sudden new ally, was there? A whirlwind disintegrated briefly, reforming into two silhouettes – and the hitmen, following a curt order, stepped aside, leaving the two non-humans to slug it off between themselves. Dracula had skills and experience to his advantage. Gray enjoyed the enhanced strength of the freshly-turned, plus the enemy's tiredness played into his hands as well. It appeared to be an even match. 

Blow after blow, sharp claws lashed into the flesh, fangs seeking an opening to the enemy's throat. A short skirmish ended in two nosferatus circling each other again, looking for a chance to land the final, blazing, deadly strike. 

No one could tell how long this jousting could take, nor bet on who would emerge victorious. The hunters regrouped, catching their breath, waiting for the outcome to finish off the winning party. 

So, even if anyone saw an elderly man rushing down the stairs towards the scene of this battle, a polished cane under his arm, they didn't find any cause for interception. 

Dracula blocked Gray's hit, but missed the next one, which caused him fall on his knees, which was followed by just as precise violent kick in the ribs. The count hissed furiously in Romanian, dodged the next attempt to land a blow on him, knee-wheeled Gray, but the latter rolled on the floor and was back on his feet in no time.

"Count, count… Count Dracula, – Dorian Gray cantillated, smiling merrily, his sharpest of fangs shining brightly, – is there anything more sad in this world than the fall of a former idol? I once considered you a worthy role model, but not any longer…"

Claws aimed for a throat and came within a hair-width from their goal. Dracula evaded in a flash, after which his fist met Gray's jaw, sanding the opponent good couple of metres away.

"Idiot!" – the nosferatu yelled, straightening to his full height.

Dorian rubbed his chin and grinned. His muscles tensed, about to push the body up in the air with one mighty leap. 

"Count!" – a familiar resonant voice interjected their fray. Dracula raised his head and meet the eye of Professor Van Helsing, who was standing next to the balustrade. There was no question about him arriving in time, no matter the haste. 

Dorian Gray flew up, but, ahead even of him, something dark and thin swished past his face. The count reached out and caught Van Helsing's cane with such confidence, as it was laying there in the thin air for him to pick up. 

There are those who postulate that the nosferatus are capable of flying in their human shape. Most likely, they are simply misled with the vampires' huge jumps which could well create an illusion of flying for a human eye. Dorian Gray did jump, easily covering the distance between him and his enemy, but, once up in the air, he could not stop, nor even change his direction, even though he already saw what Dracula had in his clenched fist. Well-sharpened, fully polished aspen stake entered the chest of the new-turned vampire, got his heart and exited on the other side. 

"No,.." – was the last sound that came from instantly-deadened Gray's lips before the scarlet flames in his eyes went down. 

Dracula threw the body aside, into the rays of daylight, filtering through arched windows on the stained floor. The pale winter sun touched the snow-white skin and golden hair – and Dorian Gray's body began to smoulder. 

"Cover him up!" – Van Helsing ordered. Tall, skinny shape of Eric dashed past Dracula. Two harsh pulls did the job: the curtain went off its rails and was thrown over Dorian Gray, now reposed.

There was a familiar metallic clank behind Dracula's back. The count rolled his eyes theatrically and turned towards the hunters who were still upright. He graced them with a wide, all-fangs-bared, smile. 

"I can let a vampire go on his merry ways", – one of the hired hands said.

"Two of them", – another one added darkly.

Dracula turned and beheld dishevelled, ragamuffin, but, most certainly, safe, sound and free Aurel. Next to him, stood Jonathan Harker and a young lady the count had not met before. She looking tired, but even so, eye-catching enough, to say the least. 

"Do you think this all a performance? Have I gone into all this effort for your entertainment? – Dracula scoffed. – Which part of getting the hell out of here did you miss?" – he addressed his nephew in Romanian. 

"But, uncle, we were ought to help you!"

"As for me, I couldn't beat my curiosity, – Eric chimed in unflappably. – Never seen such a destruction to be produced single-handedly". He looked around, visibly impressed.

"I have, – Jonathan snapped, fishing his pistol out of pocket and training it at one of the hitmen. – Nothing to be fascinated with. Gentlemen, I have a reason to believe that police will turn up in this mansion before long".

A dry clicking accompanied another barrel pressing against the temple of another hired hand. 

"Thus, we suggest the mutual parting of ways", – Van Helsing concluded politely.

The hunter turned face-to-face with the Professor, causing the barrel move over to his brow. 

"These creatures are monsters, – he said, pointing towards Dracula and Aurel. – Our duty is to clean the world off them and protect the humanity from dangerous predators. We cannot just leave them here, alive and well".

"I don't mind the next round", – Dracula cut in. The hunter gave him a smouldering look of indignation. His hand surreptitiously slid down to his waist, whereas his partner's fingers closed on the handle of humongous heavy revolver. They were strong. They were experienced. To get rid of the interlopers and go on with the fight to the death would not take longer than a minute… One of the two was already stepping ahead…

With a soft whistle, a thin rope noose enlaced the hunter's throat, fastened, and in one jerk, ground went from under his feet. 

"Gentlemen, – Van Helsing sighed, still smiling politely, – with all due respect, you are outnumbered and currently at our gunpoint. There are dead and wounded within your ranks. Take those you can take with you and leave here, unless you are in a hurry to make an acquaintance of the English police".

The duel of glances between the hunter and the Professor went on for an unbearably long second. 

"Just this once, – the hired hand declared at once and stepped back. – But we shall meet again, vampire!" The count waved his hand nonchalantly, as if signing an official agreement. "We're leaving!" – the hunter commanded.

Soon the hall was all but empty.

Irene gathered up his skirts lest they got dirtied with blood. She was feeling liverish, and she inwardly cursed herself more than once for overconfidence and curiosity which prompted her follow the men into this dreadful place. Now she could rest assured the nightmares would come in due course, she thought bleakly. Unless she asked the Count to adjust her memory a bit, wiping it clean from all these horrors, that is…

She found herself next to Jonathan. "I told you it would be better to leave in advance", – his eyes said. He didn't voice it, though, just smiled encouragingly. 

"What became of the hound, then?" – Dracula sounded almost sociably. 

"Dead", – Eric replied.

"You killed him without my participation?"

"Oh, uncle, please, not now!" – Aurel groaned imploringly in French.

"Who got ahead of themselves, knowing I meant to personally break the neck of this witless beast?"

Eric protruded a long bony finger pointing at Jonathan.

"Do not be so modest, Monsieur, you, as well as Professor, claim your fair share of credit in the whole shebang", – Jonathan waved him away, noting, not entirely without some malicious glee, Eric to shudder a little. 

"Yet it was you who gun him down!" 

Professor Van Helsing crouched next to Dorian Gray's burned body.

"There was a big blaze in the Park Lane recently, – he said, almost dreamily. – I trust, about two or three weeks ago…"

The Count Dracula looked at the mortal shell of the former landlord, turned his eyes towards the Professor and grinned knowingly.

In a few minutes, the fire was in full bloom, all across the house, catching in its predatory aureoles prey after a new prey. Wood and silk, velvet drapes and furry carpets, all the wonderful things which were the pride and joy of Dorian Gray the beauty connoisseur, turned into a rich meal for the blaze. Dracula allowed himself a little time to admire the view, and fiery sheen on the nosferatu's perennially pale cheeks looked like a devilish ruddiness. 

Later on, a crime committed at the house of one of the most famous social lions was all over the headlines. The newspapers reported the latest about a gang, an attack and armed robbery, resulting in a fire which killed several of the brigands as well as the homeowner himself. Dorian Gray's corpse was barely recognisable when it was found. It was the servants' day off, and by the time they returned, the firefighters were almost done there. Several badly burned bodies discovered in the house were never identified, except for one: rings on Dorian Gray's fingers gave him away.


	24. Epilogue

London, as befits a true gentleman, continued with its measured schedule of existence: a morning paper, work at the City, evening tea, a lap blanket, a sherry, a dry stick-like spouse, a veritable gang of children and a dinky French nanny, always up to a thing or two, went without saying. Other people's troubles did not concern London overmuch, as long as no one stuck their noses into its own. There were rules and principles to keep for any occasion. And only at the time of the twilight, when stepping into this delicate, unsteady semi-darkness, without the sunlight to rely on, nor having dipped into the moonlight yet either, the city lost its constant surety. It lied up, waited and prayed that nothing… inappropriate would happened in the dusk. 

Lord Hamilton and lord Darnham approached The Brown from different directions. They stopped at the doors, hospitably opened by the butler, to exchange hellos. 

There was fortunately not a soul in the smoking room. A strong coffee was served, Lord Hamilton received his cigars, whereas Lord Darnham used his own cigar box. 

Sipping leisurely from a Saxon porcelain cup, Lord Hamilton took a letter out of his pocket. An expensive brand of paper, exuding slightly bitter perfume, a sophisticated monogram, everything about this note spoke volumes about the sender's demanding tastes. Another letter, exactly like the first one, landed on the same little tea table. This one came from Lord Darnham's pocket. 

"Have you any idea why we are invited here? More to the point, by who exactly are we invited?" – he inquired. His friend checked the contents one against another: they were strictly identical, bar the names of the addressees. 

"I can venture a guess or two, all equally unlikely", – lord Hamilton responded gloomily and emptied his cup in one gulp. 

Stylish standing clock at the door struck four. The Egyptologists turned towards the source of the sound. As if on cue, the door opened, apparently all by itself, letting in a tall young man in a grey coat tailored to suit the latest demands of fashion. His fair hair was tied at the back of his head with a black silk ribbon. There was hat in his hand and a cane in another. Lord Darnham recognised a young Transylvanian upstart who got his hands on the invaluable treasure that rightly belonged to the British Museum, at first sight. 

"Good day, gentleman", – the Count Aurel Von Wittelsburchartschtaufen smiled. The sight of this smile made Lord Darnham positively uncomfortable. This was the last man he would expect to meet in this hotel. "Lord Darnham, what a pleasure it is to see you. And this, I suppose, must be Lord Hamilton? Capital. Everybody's in."

"Milord, – Lord Darnham rose from his armchair, – allow me to introduce Count Von Wittelburchardtstaufen". 

Lord Hamilton grunted something uncommitted, trying to guess what was to come next.

"Extremely pleased to meet you too, – Count was beaming as if indeed enjoying it all. – Gentlemen, I took the liberty to invite you here to extend my condolences over what happened at this museum of yours. Alas, I couldn't follow the investigation progressing, due to being away. I read in the papers that your fugitive pharaoh came back to you", – the young man smiled jovially. "However, I take it, the stolen valuables have not been recovered after all?" Darnham shook his head sadly and the Count sighed: "So sorry to hear that".

"I am sincerely touched, – Lord Hamilton said. – But we are doing our best to compensate for our losses. The exhibition opens soon, and let me use this occasion to invite you there."

"Much obliged, but, to my eternal chagrin, I cannot accept. Sadly, I am leaving your hospitable country. Yes, gentlemen, – the Count sighed with feigned regret, – the circumstances beyond my control force me to cut m visit here short".

"What a shame", – Lord Darnham's sigh was not a bit more genuine. 

"And before I go, I decided to make… how do you call it… – the young man frowned slightly, -…a goodwill gesture".

He clapped his hands and a short bald little man appeared at the door. Lord Darnham recognised this visitor as well – it was Igor, the Count's servant. 

He was carrying something not too big, but visibly heavy, covered with a densely textured white cloth. 

Lord Darnham's heart went into a flutter. 

Igor put the object on the table. 

"I chose, – the Count said, taking the cloth by the side, – to give the British Museum one of jewels of the crown of my art collection as a present". With that, he pulled the throw off. 

The golden goat was revealed to the present company.

"A present, you said?" – Lord Darnham verified, whereas Lord Hamilton admiringly doted over the sculpture, lovingly touching its wings, snout and hooves with his fingertips. 

"Oh yes, – the Count looked the lord in the eye, chandelier's light reflecting in his pupils, which then briefly turned red. – I donate this cute animal to you. I dare think my name would look most quaintly on a plaque next to it. "A gift from our Transylvanian guest" – sounds charming, does it not?"

"On behalf of the entire scientific community of the United Kingdom, I thank you", – lord Hamilton pronounced solemnly.

"Oh stop it, – the Count waved it away plaintively with just a hint of skittishness. – Now, with your permission, I shall take my leave of you. I have a pressing matter to attend to".

He bowed to those present in general and left. Igor followed him without so much as a look at the goat, and closed the door.

"I say! – Lord Darnham exclaimed with indignation. – "From our Transylvanian guest", by Pete's sake!" 

"My dear friend, – lord Hamilton slapped his shoulder in a paternal way, – it's all for the better. We saved a fortune on this most valuable exhibit!"

"Considering that Mr Gray, the late Mr Gray as of now, is hardly about to pay us a single shilling… may he rest in peace…"

"Granted, we are not in the black, but nor are we in the red, – Lord Hamilton nodded. – It's not a mean feat, to even the balance, in the end".

"We'd better take the statue to the museum, then, – Lord Darnham suggested, – before Count changes his mind".

The scholar Lords might even be slightly injured in their pride if they knew that the Transylvanian Count gave not another thought to either them or the golden goat since stepping out of the smoking room. There was only one person on the young man's mind at the moment – the very one he was in a hurry to visit. 

* * *

Irene Adler was sitting by the window, a book in her hands, twirling a bookmark. She couldn't focus on the tale, much as she tried. After several lines, a paragraph at most, her thoughts went wandering. 

"You have a visitor, miss", – a young housemaid offered Irene a card on a small tray. 

"Let him in".

To all who knew her, Irene was away in Kent on a friend's invitation. In actuality, she was back at her apartments in "The Brown", where a couple of invitations already reached her, but she declined them all. Strangely enough, she was not haunted by nightmares about the recently experienced horrors. She only occasionally caught herself sitting deep in thought, oblivious to everything around her, and there were odd dreams at night, uneasy, leaving a sticky feeling in her mind, yet she couldn't remember a thing about what happened in them by the time she woke up. The vampire bite marks all but disappeared from sight, but Irene knew it would be a while before they were completely gone. Or, perhaps, these marks would stay with her as long as she lived. However, she overcame something along these lines before, when she became a widow suddenly. She managed then, which meant, she would again. The first time was the hardest one. From then on, time was all that was needed…

Aurel appeared, as fresh and blooming as a rose in May. They exchanged hellos, indulged in a small talk about the weather, but it was clear as day he could barely wait to be through this boring rite and get to the point. 

"My dear Miss Adler, – he began, – Irene, you see, I am leaving".

"Already? When are you going?"

"My uncle would rather leave England yesterday, but I talked him into staying a day more. We shall depart tomorrow".

"What is the rush?" 

Aurel winced in annoyance. 

"Papa discovered what the fault was with the telegraph uncle Vlad broke on purpose before leaving for London. The moment he had it fixed, he telegraphed Igor. I would wager, he already knows about… everything. Or will soon. I am in for a rather unpleasant conversation back home. But never mind. – He paused. – There is an unfinished business I still have in London".

"Do you expect to finish it before tomorrow?"

"I do hope so, – Aurel smiled. – In fact, it is up to you".

Irene blinked. A shadow of a doubt passed her mind, a supposition, not a well-grounded one, more of a shot in the dark… She smiled politely, settling on not jumping to conclusions just yet. 

"We talked about it before, remember… back then… I mentioned that papa sent me to London on a condition…"

Irene briefly strained her memory.

"Oh yes, – she nodded, – something not reprehensible at all". 

"Well, that's not how he put it, but this is neither here nor there. Papa wanted me to have some diversion, to broaden my mind, make new acquaintances, and… – he paused again, – also find a suitable candidate for a spouse in London". 

"I knew it", Irene sighed inwardly. 

"Papa believes the best wives come from England. The women there, he says, are smart, well brought-up, dignified and know a thing or two about duty. Uncle agrees with him, you know, he too found his bride in London. I can't say I was much inspired by this condition, – the young man went on. – At first, I thought, among the ladies of London's society I couldn't find anyone I would feel at least a semblance of affinity towards, let alone anything deeper. Then again, in high-born families, one's heart desires are rarely paid heed to… Still, choosing someone who could become part of my family… by Jove! And yet, against all odds, I met you, Irene. And then I realised, you were worthy, always were".

"Wait, but I am not even English!"

"It does not change a thing! Please, Irene… Miss Adler! Do me an honour of marrying me!" – Aurel shot out, blushing visibly.

Irene bit her lip.

"You are keeping quiet, – the Count looked saddened. – Do you not believe I can make you happy? I am rich, very much so, I am an estate owner in my own right, it comes from my Saxon grandmother. You will have everything you could ever dream of! And, to top it off, I will give you an eternal life!"

"Eternal? – Irene muttered. – The eternity is too long a time, Aurel".

The young man's face fell for a moment, but he perked up instantly. 

"But there's a title coming with it, as well! Our bloodline harkens back to Henry The Lion himself!" 

"My God, you are such a child still", – Irene murmured, smiling despite herself. 

"Do you not think you can make me happy? – Aurel tried to look Irene into the eye. – Come on, that is sly of you, you know full well you can lit up any society, any house! We shall be such a beautiful couple!" At this point, the young woman coughed, desperately struggling to keep in the laughter which was positively screaming to get out. 

"Stop it, – Aurel drawled, – you are my perfect match. You know who I am. You know what I am. You know what I can do. You will go into our union eyes wide-open". 

Irene shook her head sadly.

"I am grateful beyond words for your proposal. I put an incredible value in our friendship… and I don't want to lose it".

"That means no? – Aurel nodded knowingly. – Well, uncle did warn me!" – he remarked, in a slightly injured tone.

"Do you regret you acted so rashly?"

"No! I regret nothing, – Aurel stated firmly. – Only, I have no idea now what to do next. I have never felt so stupid in my life".

"A valuable bit of practice, then, – Irene remarked. – I think, it's just the time for us to say goodbye. You are going home and, believe me, the air of Transylvania will cheer you up".

"Promise to visit us, at least, – Aurel said. – I will show you around our library and the front stairs. And wait till you see the bathrooms of the castle! It's of an authentic baroque style!"

"I solemnly swear to consider this", – Irene responded.

Once alone, she paced around the room, half-sat into the armchair and stood up again. She couldn't help but admit to herself that the Count's words struck some deeply-hidden chord within her soul. She was of two minds about whether to accept his proposal for some while, albeit a short one. Still, the reason prevailed yet again. 

"I am too sensible for my own good, – Irene thought sadly. – Am I destined to never feel anything romantic again? I refused the Count not because he is a foreigner – we Americans do not discriminate this way – nor even because he is a nosferatu. He was right, I did see him for what he is and it does not scare me. Dear God, the only thing that prevented me from saying yes was our age difference!"

Truer words could never have been spoken. Should they marry, they would stay forever together, hand in hand: she, eternally just over thirty, and he, ever an excitable boy. 

Irene tossed her head and resolutely pushed Aurel Von Wittelburhardtstaufen's card deep between the pages of a ladies' journal. This night, the first time after Gray's death, she slept dreamlessly.

* * *

Professor Van Helsing perched himself on the edge of a table, covered with old paper editions, a layout of a house, speckled with pencil marks, in his hands. 

A chaos of construction reigned supreme in the premises. 

This small office was located not far from the Kings Cross Station. Jonathan managed to negotiate a well-affordable level of price. Despite their best efforts, their exploits on that fated day became quite a scoop, which prompted an extreme inrush of clientele. 

To spare Mrs Turner, about to return from Leeds, a nervous breakdown, the Professor made a quick calculation and went out on limb with an idea to rent some convenient spot to have somewhere to see the clients. Jonathan had been thinking about it for some time by then, because, slowly but surely, the firm Helsing & Harker kept developing into quite a brand. It was Van Helsing who resisted staunchly, until the recent events proved the last straw. 

"Morning, Professor! – Jonathan hailed him, entering the room. – Has the contractor called in yet?"

"He has, and of a rather cheery type, too. Until he recklessly leaned on the wardrobe, the one that was in this corner, remember?"

"And quite well I do, yes. Where did it go, by the way? Ah… I see". 

"Indeed. The poor thing couldn't stand such an indelicate treatment and fell down in… dust. The contractor got away with a mild concussion. But how have you been going, my friend?"

"Igor handed me the keys".

The Professor raised his eyebrow.

"They left London, – Jonathan replied to the unasked question. – All three of them, mind. Dracula stuck to his promise and released the servants. Igor let the one who injured him in that skirmish with Gray's men off the hook. However, he flatly refused to give him any references. Well, such an item on a resume would hardly prove an advantage at a job interview, anyway".

"What will become of Belgravia house, then?"

"The Count decided to keep it, to rent it out. He might yet wish to come back here. He did mention it himself – something about next spring, or this summer, even. So we have a bit of quiet time to ourselves… for the moment". 

The Professor nodded. 

"On second thoughts, – he said, – I will not dispose of the medallion for the time being. Even though it did not factor into the freeing of the Count, something tells me, we may yet make a use of this little thing". 

The Professor unfolded the sketch on the table and, together with Jonathan, they hunched over it. 

"English basements are so dull!" – Eric's voice sounded around the office, and soon was followed by its owner appearing on the doorstep, in his permanent hat, beloved scarf, and masked, his coat hem smeared in soil. – "Nothing interesting at all in the cellar, – he reported, dusting it down. – Two rats, and that is that. They got away, too. A rat poison would not go amiss".

"We'll get a cat", – Van Helsing remarked. 

"That would cost you more. Then again, whatever floats your boat. You are already about to throw a fortune to the wind repairing this building".

"There is no such thing as a cheap repair", – Jonathan shrugged. Eric still lived in their attic, on account of Professor Van Helsing's lack of objections, and still viewed himself as special task assistant. The lawyer had no alternative but to go along with it. 

Eric cast a cursory glance at the papers on the table. 

"Monstrously tacky, – he stated categorically. – Stands no comparison to what I had in Paris. You should have seen the furnishings, Monsieurs! And I made it all myself, too! – he added with not a small amount of pride. – Ah! Those were the days, back then. History was being made right in the streets. The world was changing in front of our eyes. The formerly oppressed and downtrodden took their fate in their own hands…" – he sighed nostalgically. 

"Were you at the barricades?" – Van Helsing seemed genuinely interested.

"Not in person, – the former Phantom of the Opera shrugged. – But they invited me more than once, noting that my talent was in tune with revolutionary ideas. And I did give them my music as a gift, for inspiration in glorious battle". 

"You are a veritable jack of all trades, are you not? – Professor Van Helsing grinned and got a toolbox from under the table with one push of a foot. – But can you repair a wardrobe?"

Eric looked at the pitiful remains of said wardrobe, looked the Professor up and down, and wordlessly took a hammer and nail-drawer out of the box.

A familiar slender figure went past the window and there was a knock on the door.

"Good day, gentlemen", – Irene Adler said, carefully navigating around the debris scattering the floor all around, and the reefs of the items of furnishing in these stormy waters. Both companions violently blushed in shame and rushed towards her, helping her towards the table and trying to get the obstacles out of the way. Even though it would took much longer than that to tidy this place up. A lot of time it would take… or simply one good miracle. 

"I was looking for you and your landlady was so kind as to give me your address. Sorry for the intrusion".

"You are always welcome here", – the Professor said, installing the precious visitor comfortably in a large armchair in the middle of relatively cleaned space by the table. – I trust, you are well?"

"Yes, thank you, Professor. But I am here on business matters! – Irene was notably agitated. – I hope you will not think me insane, though I myself am starting to have my doubts. How do they call it in medicine terms, when one has a compulsive sensation of being stalked?"

"Do you believe you are being followed?" – Van Helsing asked in a soft voice.

"To tell you the truth, it now seems to me it has been going on for some while. All this business with Aruel distracted me, drew all my thoughts and all my strength towards resolving it, so at first I believed this stalking to be my imagination, boosted by tiredness and excitement. But now that it all has ended well and I am back to my normal regular life, now it is resuming! Please Professor, be honest with me: am I going mad?"

Van Helsing put his palm over Irene's small cold one. 

"I know better than anyone that you went through quite a number of things which could easily instigate stalking, – he said. – Place your confidence in Jonathan in me. I promise you, we shall find the answers. And for the start, tell us all about it…"


End file.
